the fareohs curse or how tootincommon chokes on a cloudberry in its deathintheafternoon

 

while the consortia of sadooity does its very best to keep stories out of novel their best isnt good enough and stories  ubiquitous selfrighteous aggressive  sneak in through the fractures of ineptness   we join todays sneak as tootincommons sipping a lakkalikööri prepared for it by ay in mophinebuneferankh at a greenfaerie bar on the cliffs of saqqara   we say lakkalikööri not from any technical or skullarly precision but because we like the word better than deathintheafternoon but by lakkalikööri we mean deathintheafternoon although as you see from the title and will see from the story lakkalikööri isnt an entirely inappropriate nym   in this sense anyway title and story agree  which isnt  as storytelling experts will tell you  always the case

 

tootincommons only eleven egyptian years old but its a cat in whonym form and so lives differently and drinks lakkalikööris prodigiously for its years and lives are of a cat but its liverlusts of a whonym   it only trusts ay to prepare its drinks for who not among the commons wishes to cut the tall poppy down for the commons is of the epicaricacy but the toot in the commons knows no such joy

 

even as tootins nhũmẫu streams her milk into its newling miṣrmaw and sings the ptahka lullaby

 

were all warmer when were touching

were all hotter when were fucking

were all cooler when were crying

were all colder when were dying

 

tootin knows of the fareohs curse which exists long before any fareohs and indeed some say even begets the first fareoh and every one hence until the last drop of nswt blood leaves maximinus dazas hêpar   tootin is born with this knowledge and all other knowledges flow from it

 

tootin is a nympholept and this interferes with its love of lakkalikööria for it has not figured out how to swoon before a nymph and swoon simultaneously before the green faerie though if it had consulted the nomarch of faerieame it would have known that deep in the pyramid of khufu is a great rupture that should one be able to read the margins of the texts of the ninth volume of book of intiaten one might enter    but all this shows is that even tootins cant on their own know it all

 

& all well say dearest unreaders in this regard is that the secret knowledge of our nomarch may have something to do with the strange relations of indefiniteness and definiteness and that even tootin  though it itself is this relation and its sign and symbol  hasnt yet seen the farnear of what it might very well in its distribution be

 

one day  if we can call these times days  as tootins prowling along the niles riparian accounts it eyes  her name is bhā  she lounges on a mastaba masturbating masterfully  a member of the indefinite class and while thoughts briefly swirl eddying it toward that saqqaran artemisian cantina  those ramblings of wermōd

 

a louche couplet clouds in a play in a play   limnologies of waverings

 

for i had then laid wormwood to my dug

wormwood and sugarplums are the same

 

and the opaque and liquid song drives quickly in its mind as bhā proffers her left & nymphy teat  the other hand in the nethers swamping  and tootin ambles sotted forward and clamps odontos to the task

 

but what is this? the cup of titta is a lakkaliköör and the cherillet a rubus aqpik and tootin in its gasp and valve  in distilled and lucid suckling  of & out the commons  becomes its distribution

 

 

not my courage and leadership  neither my birth nor power  not my name or vestments  neither intelligence nor perspicacity nor vision  that create me as fareoh  but doubt  disquiet

 

i am the fareoh who writes the curses

and believes neither in the curse thats written

nor the fareoh who writes

waiting for novelot

you say all my novels about is novel  of course all its about is novel  all there is is novel  novel writes about novel  were involved in a grand solipsism of novel and consequently complain about little solipsisms to detract us from the big one   its not waiting for godot  its waiting for novelot  but you say godot never comes  well novel also never comes  but whats this you say  ha got you to admit its a novel   but  notjokes aside  novel does never come  like godot and novelot and god and peace  because its always here and everywhere  it never has to come  not only that  it cant come   do you wait for the universe?   no  the universes here   imagine if sammy fuckett had written waiting for universot   whonyms only think the plays profound because godots elusive  but sos everything that doesnt come because its here   that was the real play sammy played  and the play plays it on us   just like novel youll say   well not really

what doesnt novel do? novels omnipotent omniscient omnipresent omnigood omniyuckyuk omniomni  novels god and has replaced god as god continually fails because science cant find it   but novels a fact and its god  which isnt bad considering it doesnt exist

 

lets get this straight  novel doesnt know what its doing  its still not out of diapers   now its true still being in diapers is a kind of knowledge  some would say a knowledge far superior to most forms of notbeingindiaper   and havent all those ponderous eurodemics  a hybrid of pandemic yakademic academic and youreapeein  failed for not having written beingindiaper and notbeingindiaper   after all having all that shit just squishing around your bottom and not being able to do anything about it has to do something special to the brain   but if only there were more shit! novels in diaper but doesnt shit so misses out on the one thing that makes the diapered ones smart

 

poo aside

writing is pooing  theres little difference between reading a good dump resting in the toilet receptacle and a good book resting on your lap  if you eat literary ice cream and french fries and hamburgers  even if theyre gourmet and organic  your books will be fat

 

writing that claims to be about writing is actually pooing about pooing  so there are two types of writers  pooers and pooologists  and the latter are really just a subclass of pooers but those pooers who poo not because they have to physically but because theyre spiritually compelled  they poo not to defecate but just to poo   and yea in the future nostrapoopus says there shall arise in the east a subsubclass of pooers who poo to poo to poo and then  even then  a subsubsubclass of poo⁴  and so  without end  it goes

 

whats with all the pooism and pooists? pooologys the oldest and noblest of disciplines  the well of wellness

 

ooQ

craprates poofessor of poopporn induced output

faculty of eternal flow

university of east rrhea

 

as film stupidly borrows from narrative and internet stupidly borrows from society so novel stupidly borrows from reality   i know what the yakademics say about reality   fine   they dont know anything about reality  its just another word now comprehensively abstracted from its earthiness this abstraction rationalized to be the highest knowledge & sophistication   a phd is an expert sharlatan sherpa taking you on a oneway noreturn path to comfy delusion  who wouldnt want to swallow that irrevocable pill   let me tell you i got close  the capsule was in my mouth  i could taste its sexy wellnessfull sweetness  the grad students stripping in my office  it was stroking my uvula with its collegial tendernessy tentacles   but then i couldnt help myself  i gagged  spat it out on the subway floor during rush hour and it attacked a huddle of poor immigrant children while chanting equality fraternity liberty intersectionality madness science domination love   guess it was my fault for coming so close to swallowing   the blood & lawsuits were horrible and its taken me almost twenty years and a lot of drugs and a clowder of antisherpas no one tells you about and are hiding in the privies of energy to help me forget   forget what?  forget the shitless diaper   forget the taste of the pill  forget the stinkless knowledge

 

so what should novel borrow from if not reality or society? some say it only borrows from novel  a selfcontained ecosystem of book   some say it borrows from imagination  that vorticial latrine of images and daemons   we could say it borrows  it must borrow  from  and only from  nothing   which is ridiculous   well for one thing novel doesnt borrow  it steals  it steals from everything  which stupid & smart alike confuse with nothing  imagination irreality polyreality book image pills death knowledge stupidity shit shitlessness

 

death though is pissed novel steals from it  nothing steals from death   so death has a side business of stealing from novel  tit for tit as some investment banker must be saying as it diddles its clients in chains in the benthouse of capital   novel and death compete as grand thieves on the boulevard of everything and try to knife each other when they find themselves in the same store at 3am and the cops are coming but death you know can never get caught or hurt so death just laughs and novel trips on its tale and bleeds to death

this is my sadoo

anyone who has even a smeddum of a mind knows that not only õvəl doesnt matter anymore but ârt doesnt either  nothing matters anymore other than behaving sensibly as a species which is of course the one thing we cant do   we can do everything except what matters  which maybe is why were so obsessed with matter  to detract us from what really matters   what really matters is caring for our home which we might call love and all ärt does at its best is just say this in ten thousand different ways and whether it does anything at all other than say this and whether this perhaps not doing anything at all about what matters most is arts schizophrenia which may be better or worse or just different than societys schizophrenia about trying to do something about what matters most of which is either making things worse or trying to make things better as even trying to make things better considering our wholesale ineptness may easily be just making things worse and so artists are like the ancient desert mothers & fathers who just eventually shrugged and went out into the wasteland and sat on pillars and ate sunsets and died although of course once a few yahoos had gone out there a bunch of wannabe yahoos followed and then there was a society of desert yahoos just like theres a society of artist yahoos and nothings really changed except there are almost ten billion of us and fortynine gazillion more things and not room for many more and yet even knowing all this all we crave is more and you know what billy bee lake said about that and since all this craving is exactly the opposite of what really matters what it means though nothing means anything is that were the first instance in nature of pure hate which is why i guess religions like christianity arose so that we could further deceive ourselves that were creatures of love and this deception yet another hate  hate upon hate  and heres my õvīl  i mean my hate  i mean my despair  i mean my nothing matters  i mean my desert yahoo schizophrenia  this is my sadoo

the story about a thinking about a novel maybe called conversings with cats about their names

tonight eg novels lethargic and a little depressed  it doesnt like the word _depressed because valleys are depressed and valleys are cool  so lets say novels lethargic a little valleyed  novel likes the word lethargic because it means morbidly drowsy  which is super sexy  and is the magic of forgetting which youve got to be good at to think about novel  and thinking about novels the same as writing novel  because each words a bundle of forgetting  each word forgets a lot and when you add all the words of novel together  which is more words than all the words that have ever existed and will exist and can exist  novels more forgetting than forgetting  which is a pretty big accomplishment when you think about it which you dont really want to do too much   novels valleyed and forgettingmagicked tonight and it needs a little story though it doesnt believe in them

 

alabalawoolaboos thinking its newest forgetting which it thinks itll call conversings with cats about their names   we say itll call but everyone knows novel does the calling   we usually dont like putting these sorts of asides in novel but occasionally asides are more important than the story and intrude like roaches in a mexican dormitory but its equally important to acknowledge that the asides only important when youre in the aside and then is immediately forgotten but novels always important because you cant not be in it though you can forget it in fact you must   its thinking while its conversing with its cat  though truly as we know it cannot be its cat for every whonym is only its cats  its conversing with cat of whom it is its and theyre conversing about its  ie the cats  name  and the conversation  migod this is entirely inarticulate  goes something like this

 

c readin bout sum whonym called global shaker  thinking lao that dood no global shaker & wtf yoo whonyms mean by this shaking globularly

 

w if possible id like to get back to laoing about your name

 

c eye mene  c this temptanation lao lao on lao floorings alonging bigpoopoo spot and once the woofwoofpassing and loof snugli fiend vari loof and loof the temptanation

 

w it just seems to me no matter what i call you i never lao the name

 

c wssshwsssh  u c mynot  all lao chill deren and hoo speakspeaks  wot yoo  ootside lao lao

 

w for instance if we whonyms named you general lao when you came to us and if your ears twitch in a particular way when i say general lao but i often also call you furfuck or pamplepuss or noballsface or koo-shqa or chimpetina or judz or bœuusch or lounge and to each calling your ears also move in vague activity but it seems perhaps differently than when i say general lao what am i to lao?

 

c lang wich wot lao temp wich ootwich lao dood shakeshake

 

w yes i see your point but im trying to think or rather wait to receive thinking about this novel in a novel in a novel in a novel maybe called or calling conversings with cats about their names and id like it if we could collaborate a bit since the title does seem to assume some dialogical evidence and i know whonyms have long been fascinated by the subject even if your kind may have different perspectives and its these differences that im trying to however tangentially and obscurely get

 

c laolao poobigpoo woofloof wooftemplaowot doodwich

 

and alabalawoolaboo adds this to its existing material though nothing ever seems to be added or subtracted  and it realizes conversings with cats about their names has always already been written and novel never has anything to do

 

this is the material  novel says  theres nothing new

 

now that thankfully weve got that story out of the way lets trash it   first of all it stinks  its got no plot really and the characters are types we dont care about and a sense of place is pretty much lacking and it doesnt go anywhere doesnt even start anywhere and the language is mostly incomprehensible and its boring and not very smart and teaches us nothing and doesnt make us feel anything and its only redemptions that its short

 

novels still valleyed and forgettingmagicked but at least the story about alabalawoolaboo and its story moves us a tad closer to death and so we can though we usually dont believe a little in progress and its nice to believe in something sometime somewhat even if it never lasts long

 

novel exists whether we believe in it or not  it lasts even when we dont  it neither believes nor disbelieves which is why it exists independently of our belief  novels smart even if storys dumb and were dumber and this is why we always praise novel whether its good or bad or hiding

 

the noveleum of novelas novel

by cat and laopoo

dedicated to laoselves

 

novels tired and wants to go to sleep but cant because its too obsessed with the sound the basement sumppump makes in the kitchen sink every 45 minutes so instead of going to sleep it writes this sentence about wanting to go to sleep and if anything sums up novel thiss it 

ovoidarama

one of the most interesting chapters  though there are no chapters  in my novel  though there is no me or novel  is the one about eggs   its so interesting i decided to leave it out as it makes all the rest look bad   it initially started off with the story about my opening the frij and looking in the egg container  im vegan but occasionally lapse into eggs  theyre so ovoid and happy and their little asses  so reversible  stick up into the air like wedding invitations and the remaining eggsre in this configuration

and i cant decide which egg to take  i only need one  to illustrate further and to aid or i mean egg unreaders in our great collective task of mutual misunderstanding lets number them thusly i mean eggly

the following points are particularly noteworthy

1. 1 & 11 and 6 & 8 are the only neighbour eggs
2. 9 & 0 could be considered neighbour eggs but only from a special perspective
3. 3 is the only true isolate  although it seems happy in its role  though it is upside down
4. 0 9 & 6 are the best numbers while we dont like 3 or 8  11s pretty up there and 1 while in the past weve proven its nonexistence  is passable
5. only 11 & 8 are upright
6. egg cartons in the detestable reality of my country typically come in a 6x2 arrangement but in my frij  which operates in a parallel existence  they manifest according to the impossibilities of the day
7. you cant see it here but on 11s reverse theres a faded map of the arnavutköy neighbourhood in one of the lesser purgatories
8. all the eggs seem happy but 1 is faking it
9. though there isnt really a top and bottom here there are four on the top and three on the bottom

so you see my problem

1. if i take one from the top row therell be three on each row but if i take one from the bottom the inequality between the rows increases
2. if i take 1 or 11 itll leave 11 or 1 with 3 as the only true isolates  but if there are then two true isolates is there anymore a true isolate?
3. same with 6 & 8 and only somewhat with 9 & 0
4. if i take 3 no true isolate remains which may simply not be right
5. if i take 1 therell be no eggs on either end
6. if i take 0 9 or 6 the evil numbers will match the great numbers
7. as 1 doesnt exist if i take it this may provide sufficient meditative material for a day or two
8. if i take 6 it kind of looks like the big dipper
9. if i take 0 which itself looks ovoid have i in fact taken two?

in the end i cant decide which new configuration i want and as im unsure i should even be eating eggs this refusal to act may be the best decision

 

takes a meaning to catch a meaning egg 8 shouts through the frij door and im irritated that an egg i dont like briefly amuses me

 

fortunately im distracted from these intractable difficulties when a character from this novel or from a novel i confuse with this one enters the novel and by this i mean enters the room im recovering in  these practical challenges that quickly become vastly metaphysical are exhausting  i forget its name and even if it has one  and sings

 

♩ the cat of my ♬ egyptians

takes ♯♭ a ladder down ♫♪

 

its a pretty catchy tune and my cat  whos been meowing needily on the floor nearby shuts up as if an unutterable truths been uttered and i join the singing and cat does too and the three or so of us gustily get in the bath together and sing large portions of the night away

 

and i think if this is going to be the most interesting chapter in sadoo this egg story doesnt cut it so i fry it up with some bearded hedgehogs and a few shallots

novel yaga

novel fails completely and always fails   it must fail as it can neither enter life nor escape language and thus lives in death without having the capacity for mysticism   novels the aborted incarnation of failure and this our gross fascination with it and why all noveloos are drunks and hobos  even the ones whose noveldopper is attributed with success in life  whose gängernovel walks away from novel into life and dilettantes are deceived by shadows and heap prizes upon them and laud their realism  aiding us in feeling fleetingly the shadows of our lives  but novel still remains in failure trapped  and noveloos in dusky corners of dilapidations giggling haphazardly at meaning fragments that skitter through the floors swill  absinthe in their veins and mares in their marrow  words in zero mass and volume terrorize the empty infinity of their putrescent brains and the vomit of their desolation spews and in their rare lucidities they organize the smelly lumps and voila novel and sometimes a doublewalker sallies forth and steals into the world and a star or yaga or festival or noveloid is born

unreader whats the most commonly occurring element on earth?

noveloo booze

unreader the pun

dopper oxycodone

unreader the puns the most common element as it comprises not only oxygen and booze but all words

novels desperate all the time  desperate because it cant get into life  desperate because it cant get into death  desperate because its noveloos passed out  desperate because it doesnt know anything but talks constantly   desperate because it fails and has always failed and keeps on failing and must fail and will always fail   desperate because desperate and novel must be anagrams or homonyms in some language   desperate because its däppelgonger gets all the attention and authenticity means nothing and so does anything

gänger the oceans looking more attractive everyday as a single bed  in incidental exchange for all the sea creatures ive tangentially killed by being whonym id like to provide at least one wholesome meal to a young cachalot

unnoveloo youre not wholesome

unnovelöo its more wholesome than you though thats not saying much

deunreader id like to buy an umlaut please  or if thats not possible a tréma

dėspērâtìón i know a good diacritics store on rûę dé là õåïūė

dedäpper dovelnopper a year ago or wherever it was in the wreckage of time ey were in yndy^ah a child of ganga glides by on flowers of poverty saying  exile without exile  slavery without slavery  impoverishment without impoverishment  love without love  madness without madness   whonyms  talkfiends and imagos of distant seas  drunk on mirrors   the mad  creative in their arrays and formats  reseeding of wild gardens  off the pages

ganga the divine comedy isnt funny or divine

gängaroo since when has anything been named according to its nature since nature did the naming?

alltogethernow

round & round the racetrack goes the little fear

one schlep two schlep youre not really here

wëëdër whats beautiful about this conversation is the coexistence of the pure expression of our real selves and a complete lack of any common understanding

wiglet society gaslights us under the name of order and virtue and after a few decades of this i can only hide and wait interminably for death dribbling stale mumbles while clacking at the wit that isnt there

granny ı whered dëūnrêådėrdøõ go?

dễṳnrɇɐdệrdớꝍ its annihilating into the vat of communication

yndy_ah let us pray

monster

dear dear

bungle our bingles

even as we bangle the bungles that bengle us

sometimes you arent our dear

and we are the gory

temptations in the refrigerator

forever and ever

hell is why we came

flings bums cums

we like lead and power

give us more we pray

and veils too  we like them

amen

granny ey have to piss

evry1 wet your dirty gonads on my face

god amin hymen thamyn eman daemon tutankhamun

^de_no_ve_l^doo abort

relighting on flor

ive laughed but no one on the screen has laughed  really laughed  until about halfway through this enthusiastically monstrous epic and halfway through the equally mad episode three when casterman  who never laughs  laughs uproariously  alone  in his office of death  over a sleeping brussels  and a bit later our four assassins  who never laugh  after being told to stop the iron jokes by their maybe commander  begin laughing when she herself joins the joke  and then immediately of course the denouement  which of course isnt a denouement  a pseudoconsummation of over five hours of beautiful ridiculousness  as the killers confront their doom

thinking back over the films a little like thinking back over ones life  you cant hold it all at once  not even close  i try to go sequential but this quickly collapses into digressions and questions and capers and i realize the film has done its work  endlessly duplicating lifes endless distractions  as the film does this to life and in itself it also does in us  happily collapsing our solid safeties

it shouldnt work  i keep thinking the first time i watch it  theres no reason for me to be so consistently enthralled  and yet i am   the thing is hokey interminable anarchic  the actresses as assassins are absurd  their killings are painless silent bloodless  their individual stories impossible  beliefs never suspended  the b movie schlockiness of the first episode stretched through the first four in their mammothian twelve hours

if arts supposed to hide artifice la flor fails completely   its artifice is apparent and pervasive  finally bursting exuberantly in the fourth episode as the film itself experiences a mental breakdown just about the time we are and we all enter the asylum together and flap like chickens and take on pantheonic names and conquer like the shadow casanova through collapse

what doesnt la flor explore? it travels prodigiously  not only in time and space but theme and antitheme   it goes into the darkness of the heart and out to the darkness of the night and  as in extraordinary stories  threads of divine comedy and melancholy are always in the weave   so distant  in the screen  here  so close  in our attention

its perfect in its perfect imperfections  in its calm and joyful refusal to provide answers or closure  to even ask questions or tell stories   and yet it tells stories and asks questions and answers and closure are ubiquitous  tumbling over themselves like kittens

its a dance and painting  a song and poem  not a movie   critics cite borges as an obvious inspiration but its more the museum of eternas novel with its infinite prologuings that becomes a novel by not becoming one

llinás says he hates storytelling experts and psychologists  presumably in part because of their need  like so many professionals  to drag art into their domains and thereby possess it  to explain and commoditize and psychologize and clinicize and biographize and formulaicize   but fiction is the very grenade that explodes the oppositions   when 301 and angel are killing across europe and pretending to be in love and in love and not in love and pretending not to be in love  their pretendings more real than many realities  a pretense of course thats already in a pretense  and this nestedness of simulations  already innately a function of film  in la flor becomes an ouroboros of strange and infinite loops  it becomes ourselves

if we set aside the party of the credits  but who could?  the final two episodes seem to slow down  and not just because episode six cant be over that quickly  taking us directly into dreamspace and the rebelswitchesmountiescoquettesmodels transform through their absence in episode five into oneiric meditations of continual gestation and muted freedoms from inexplicable enslavements

what do we say about the four? who are everywhere and nowhere like good gods   havent their manifold identities silenced us through excess? havent their ungraspabilities gifted us with our own facelessness?

episode four is meta? the entire thing is meta

the director disappears  the actresses disappear  time disappears  we disappear

some speak of finding ones voice but whats voice here? who is who? who speaks what? nothings authentic other than the authenticity of play

from vertov and buñuel and deren through schneemann and brakhage and sharits and hundreds of others  actors cinematographers viewers characters  have questioned the usurpation of film by conventional forces  the expected story  and through these questions extended natures most necessary diversities

but here we have la flor  which doesnt technically fall into the experimentalfilm camp  buts more experimental than most experimental films  questioning through forms so entirely new  but entirely old  but entirely new  that its hard to grasp the radicality of whats not being done   of the smirking challenge to the very foundations of art philosophy politics love

the birthymeisters

if i were to reenter the comfified institutionalization of scholardomity ive been advised by team caffeine to get a pee eich dee in the epistomologies of crossspecies communication  which i would as i believe in communication less than god but more than whonymity and one should only specialize in what one doesnt believe

novel died a while ago  did you notice?      the end      probably not  hard to with all the communication going on   but novel like i and plagues and jesus keeps on resurrecting   were birthymeisters   i birthymeister  plague birthymeister  jesus birthymeister  novel birthymeister   one big happy fucking family

i mean  i understand coffee more than i understand whonyms   the grammars of styrofoamish are my kind of grammar and the syntices of catese the syntax of my synapses  i geekily read the dictionary of hericium erinaceus as if it were netflix

writings born from dramatrauma

and writing is a broken promise

and broken promises birth internal traumadramas

circle of strife

novel some say is novel as it maintains distance between itself and life  but i keeps no distance and calls it novel   the i of conventional autobiography is equally the cast of woebegone characters populating sadoo  the coffee im drinkings no different than this paragraph

novel didnt realize it was a novel at first and then it wakes up one day and says everyone elses a novel why cant i be too and gets a genre change because it says ive always been a novel even though i dont look like one and it wonders at fourinthemorning whether writing necessarily turns into novel or whether it always has been one and if in the future its going to turn into a gluegun or an undergrad paper on intersectionality and it says now im novel now im not which means im really a magician and if magicians and novels are the same thing what does that do to time and science and war and love? and nothing sleeps much that night

all my characters are glyphs

my storys an unhinged typography

heresia bitibotom  an illegal employee of Scrubbers International  cleans the filthy toilets of wholesale asparagus buyers at the 29 hectare food terminal in thamog city  and as it sticks its scrubbie in the eternal excrement it thinks dont i contrive a spontaneity which i mistrust but ritually enter to simulate a false identification with the consuming narcissism of the present? and as she says this we realize she shust meet qinci rubatiti in chapter 496209445 though we confuse years and chapters and urination all the time and sadoo stays far away

what can we do about the whonyms who adore all thats new

even when it goes against their deepest convictions

or about the inane herd that sees beauty in something

thats no more than an impassioned call for murder?

book possesses novel and novel i or i book and book book or book word and word void or void i or i i and something  whos sadoos protagonist  says we need more words  more contractions specifically  without that evil stupidity named punctuation   heres a short starter list

novel has opinions   you think it just thinks what its told to think but thats a dead idea   novel blabs eg endlessly to anyone wholl listen about the parallels between the early days of film and the internet and bemoans that as cinematic visionaries opposed the conservative and unimaginative transfer of narrative realism to this radical new medium of film  the first new artform since the gardenofeden  so a lonely few weep over the transfer of society and media from physicality to virtuality   the internets just product identity reputation name sex image confidence will money   whonyms move their shit around and call it progress      how depressing

a central question of novel is which abuse is mine? for were all born into abuse and novelers often have to travel through many different toilets to find their own to devote their lives to exploring that particular smelly plumbing that belongs irrevocably eternally to me

some still say  despite everything  novels more novel the more it reflects life  the more it reminds us of gossip & da nooz  albeit intensifying them   but what is this life reflected? sadoo simulates life too  sure  we can say  in the way we cont say anything  but as life simulated is already a simulation of amalgama of simulations of algae of stimuli and the mirror so broken into uncountable pieces that we now have competing apps that simulate counting them  what is it you say youre seeing? what validates novel as novel? aunty reals more real than real  nosadoo more sadoo than sadoo  noti the i that is ie eyes the is

how do i think of the dead?s a question central to novel but one rarely discussed in sophisticated & polite hypernetworks   for when i wriad the living are the dead and the dead the living  a hairyclitoral inversion  and i must think of you the living ie the dead when i write of the dead ie the living  not in any of those crass ie legal any resemblance is coincidental ways  which are patent lies as everyone knows  not in any of those crassy art draws on life ways  which is grey amateurism  but as those not in my novel  but who might these be? are the dreams of those in  and the evertings too   and the psychology of these relations in the wrader and reiter are what all real novels explore

it will take a long time to be born if it can be born

a fiction so murky

so rich in inaction

its getting dark and cold and rainy and lonely and sad and windy and foggy and sleepy and dark and novel doesnt know what to do

dao de jing 15

of old she who is well versed in the way

is minutely subtle, mysteriously comprehending

and too profound to be known

it's because she can't be known 

that she can only be given a makeshift description

tentative, as if fording a river in winter

hesitant, as if in fear of her neighbours

formal like a guest

falling apart like thawing ice

thick like the uncarved block

vacant like a valley

murky like muddy water

who can be muddy and yet, settling, slowly become limpid?

who can be at rest and yet, stirring, slowly come to life?

she who holds fast to this way desires not to be full

it's because she's not full that she can be worn and yet newly made

dear fifteens,

the one of the way is many, shapeshifters and polynumbers and drainings, remotely solid

in an age of the shiny and new the ones of the way are old and worn, babies of knowing

in the ascendancy of the regulated and defined and the balancing ascendancy of their transgressions morphing far from dictionaries and violation and law

they're like neglected nature, guardians of some vital unacceptability, otiose spirits of fens and ferns, barristers of water and disasters of human recognition, naïve and ironic forms of incomprehension, wandering in the eternal discards and at home in the anarchic orbits of unsigned voids

in relation to society they're unfamiliar formal hesitant weird. almost exiled (except there's no place left to be cast out)

humanity lives far from the river and the valley, often seeking expensive counsel and humiliating chutes to try to escape to the concrete steppes from those nameless darknesses, entering the neon culture of our collective and planet-wrapping desiccated dreams. for the river's stagnant and manic and the valley depressed, and the wayversed ones breaking down and fragments are their name. but one doesn't escape. for we're made of valleys and rivers, regardless of how much we've polluted them, and who can escape oneself?

holding tightly to air and water, desiring eclipsing and outcasting - unclear ragged used partial misunderstood unknown : no adjective one's taught to admire

what does it mean to be well versed in the way? where do i go to school for this? who are the mentors and what the urls that can sell me makeshift descriptions? which books can instruct me and who are the names that can guide the seeking in minute subtlety? what are the techniques for learning to simulate fear of my neighbours and how can i get a masters in the desire to fall apart? when's the optimum time to settle or stir and what the indicators and algorithms to encourage maximum efficient and timely movement between the two? why must i muddy and clarify slowly and cant i go faster and how do i distinguish among murkiness and limpidity? i must download the dao app to make me verse well in the wu wei way and to get sage points for achieving milestones in my mission. to enrol then in an ivy workshop that'll help me understand the matrices and trends and apply them to my life goals and specialties

where's nature in all the fences? where's the way in all the protocol and rites? are the ones hiding, like the animals and god? do they tend a fading distant fire like a character not written into a littered book?

my life hasn't been full, hasn't been empty. i don't know what to write in my biography - what's happened is more of an avoiding, a detouring around, a doubt and dullness, an accumulating silent striving to escape the nightmare of biography and the gaol of genealogy. any résumé i can conjure qualifies me for nothing but an awareness of trees and trees as we know are mean old things  laughing at our callow ways  just sitting back as they are  doing nothing  watching us destroy our home like drugged lunatics