today's topic

today our topic is language.  again.  i realize our topic was language the day before and the day before that and the one before the day before that and the one before the one, the one twice before the one, and thrice, and so on past numbers into the realm of infinite words, a realm that has been rumoured to be mythical but has not yet been proven by scientists and others given to proving or trying to prove or seeming to prove to be so or wholly so.  now in all these lessons in language – which consume our days to such an extent that we could say our days are nothing but these lessons – in all this time – which could be said to be such a continual consumption that it subverts itself and is hardly time but far more words – have we learned anything?  that we even have to ask the question is disturbing and this feeling too we wonder about – wonder many things, but as an instance, whether the disturbing nature of this question is in some manner related (and, if so, how) to time … and, since time is only numbers and numbers only words, more fundamentally to words:  in other words, whether language, though seeming to teach, actually doesn’t.  but this could be a difficult thought – perhaps the most difficult – as haven’t we devoted history (and its associates:  civilization, culture, war, government) to developing language to teach, as a sort of replacement for nature, as nature seemed not to teach anything (or at least anything we liked).  so language, in offering the possibility of teaching something (or at least something we liked), is turning out to teach us nothing and nature (though who among us could speak authoritatively of nature now, since nature too has simply become another word) is turning out (at least as fully in memory as language is in hope) to have offered us something to be taught.  but all this seems simultaneously too binary and confused to coalesce into anything we might rightly call a lesson.  yet we began by not calling this a lesson but a topic and this is an important distinction.  a lesson aims to teach us something, while a topic is simply a topic and has no aims other than itself, which is to say no aims.  perhaps this is the frustration – we want language to be a lesson while all it has the capacity for is being a topic.  or is it the topic?  to speak so definitively seems problematic, raising a grammatical issue of whether the definite article is appropriate in matters outside the specific, sensuous, and prosaic.  we can obviously say – see the cat over there – without raising too many issues.  but as soon as we ask whether language is a topic or the topic, whether that is a point or the point, the’s inadequacies reveal themselves.  which should not stop us from asking, some of you might say, even as others might say these problems and limits and questions have already been discussed and yet we still are here, we still go on, language still is language.  so what can we conclude?  nothing, certainly.  but perhaps something, just to give us a little morsel to chew provocatively even if it should give us some digestive issues or make us throw up or possibly kill us.  or if something is a possibility, are not all possibilities possible and so we could say nothing certainly and everything possibly and something not at all.  but this is hardly satisfying.  don’t we want something?  yes, we could say, with perhaps almost as much certainty as nothing.  and so here it is:  this something, which has already been offered, and is here again today, with our barely even having noticed.

saint antónio nogueira

on this most grand saintday,

let us celebrate the deathday of a great sadoo,

master of masks and vagrant in the city of identity

how he has taught us of the knowledge of the voids

and calmly, wittily shown the

root emptiness of the human,

the ways of dream

heresiarch hababala

durban, natalia

my biography

little has been said these long and secret years about the days and spaces of sadoo diaper – from whence farflung turds it arose, its innumerable flushings, the journeys of the scats, how it came to be numbered – if numbers are aspects of itself – among the sadoos, the incomprehensible ramblings of this blog itself, sadoo diaper’s relations with other sadoos and the non-sadoo community, its political positions, sexual preferences, and seminal influences, scholarly theories of its psychoaesthetics … all this has been left to the reader’s vivid or more likely mundane imagination.

no more.

fukky risotto, a hermaphrodite of little renown living happenstantially in the 13^th arrondissement, was not quite out of diapers when one cloudy day in february they felt a strange urging in the nether parts.

mommy, they say.

yes fukky dear, says mommy.

mommy, i have a strange feeling.

you have many strange feelings fukky.

this strange feeling is stranger cuz i’ve never had it before.

each feeling is new fukky, there’s never a feeling you’ve had before, that’s the beauty of feelings and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

don’t get philosophical on me mommy, not at a time like this.

oh fukky – always so dramatic.

mommy, it’s my diaper.

this is the fourth time today!

it’s not the caffeine, it’s something else.

have you been into the coconut water again?

it’s alive mommy.

what’s alive?

my turd.  it’s walking around in my diaper and saying things.

fukky, turds don’t talk.

maybe it’s not a turd.

but only turds come out of the asshole.  i mean – they’re the only things that come out that haven’t gone in first.

mommy you lie you lie.

of course i lie.

you said that all outputs are inputs and all inputs outputs, that the world is a great circle or sphere or hypersphere or something and that everything’s connected.

that’s true.  but that doesn’t discredit anything else i’ve said.  or rather it may discredit it but only in a way that credits.

… so whatever’s exploring my diaper now must have first gone in me … omigod i think it’s broken out …

… fucking jesus, i see a little hand print in your little trousers …

… get it out of me mommy, get it out …

… just pull down your pants and let’s see what happens …

fukky and their mommy were good to me, especially since they weren’t expecting a third mouth to feed and didn’t really have much money, being committed primarily to verbal play, speculative caprice, irrational fun, and composting the world’s evils by ignoring them.  fukky called me diaper and mommy called me doodoo and because i was a melancholic child she often called me sadoodoo.  when they enlisted me in school they gave my name as sadoodoo diaper, which got shortened to sadoo diaper, as these things do.

it wasn’t until much later that i realized there was a large class of sadoos – all of them crammed into india – and they misspelled their names.  being committed to retaining the proper spelling and origins of myself, i left – after much weeping and the promise of tweets and postcards – to go on a quest to find other true sadoos.  surely, i reasoned – and mommy if she taught me anything taught me reason – if i had been born into a diaper others must have been too.

the secular sadoo is the record of my quest, in a kind of code, that i know other sadoos with a little bit of work can decipher.  as to the fake sadoos and all those heaps of masses that aren’t even the fake ones, as fukky always says, who gives a fukky about them?

darkness iv

long have i stood at the doors of darkness, waiting for light to give me permission to enter, or even to push me through.  then one day i found myself – though i hadn’t moved – in darkness.  and i knew then that darkness roams, seeking, and if one wishes darkness all one has to do is wait.

darkness levels, equalizes, democratizes.  and so it is little wonder of the rarity of equality, the paucity of democracy, when darkness is equated with death.

darkness is doubt, and should doubt feel like death in this epoch of knowledge, isn’t this related in part to the ferocity and confidence of truth in its new linguistic clothes?

who hasn’t uttered upon noticing the preponderance of white on a page of text and yet it is the blackness that we read?

love, dissettled bird, sentimental sword, is of darkness and hides in light, and anyone who would love would first travel on this path of possessing and masking.

we have images of fire at the onset and demise of consciousness – at least that instilled to its present degree in humanity – as barriers of light between the darknesses of eternity and the darknesses of seeing, films of beginnings and endings hardly screened in the pitch of the universe’s vast and empty theatre.

i am a curious son of darkness, it has been said.  and – a curious son of light?  no.  a curious child is always of the seed of darkness.

i am necessarily indifferent to the sufferings of the world, unless they be prosthetics of my flesh.  should i confront this necessity with the only force capable of encountering it – hardly light – the prosthetics fall away and i become darkness, and my death is as indifferent as the world’s.

how beautiful is the nudity of darkness.  light clothes everything.

so darkness is the edenic dream, and light the fall into society’s bottomless analytic well.

darkness, rather than copulating with light, maintains a wardrobe of light’s fashions.  darkness copulates with nothing and light only with itself.

if darkness was once denial of flesh and is now flesh’s fulfillment, what is light’s trajectory?

everything interesting happens at night; day exists only as a place to tell night’s stories.

what is sex other than night seeking night through day, and failing.

there is always a darkness below (in, above, around) the opposition between light and darkness that is the same as light; the path to it though is a path of darkness.

when the nightmares of day are accomplished and i am permitted to return to my natural habitat of horizontality and darkness, i breathe with the breath of eternity, my true life of dreams commences, and the substances of hallucination are intravenously fed into the conglomerates of my flesh-soul.  time then is the joke it was meant to be, the ponderous politics of the human some rapidly dispelling flatulence, and money an annoying fly i just smacked on my face.

a human who inhabits darkness detaches itself from modes of production and there, away, becomes perpetually open to being created – form of formlessness and nothing manifesting but the open.

darkness is a human oriented with more or less equal measure to the languages that seem to emerge from within it and those that seem to confront it from without.  darkness could be said to be the confusion that results from a persistent uncertainty  about the source of the myriad languages.  does this darkness change, in some psychic alchemical sense perhaps, to light as one becomes comfortable with the confusion?  but if i become comfortable, am i listening, or has comfort become a dominant voice?  i remain in the doubt of myself – a doubt some might say is a dominance – and this is darkness.

darkness is the voices of form, its drought and flood.

i am in love with darkness.  the passages and shapes of light – its assertions – are to me dark’s rough categories, beckonings toward night.

darkness is the space that can be entered after use does not lose its use but rather takes its place in the domains of uselessness.

in darkness i work with whatever materials are at hand – weakness, wealth, poverty, power, betrayal, fragmentation, loyalty, unity – and darkness teaches me to be equally adept with all materials and tools, for the universe in its reaches knows no hierarchies – or rather, knows all hierarchies and knows that within this knowledge each subverts the other and is true to itself.  through the vastness of these truths, weakness and strength are equally powerful, impecuniousness and riches equally abundant.  darkness is democracy.

darkness iii

in the absence of visible darkness yet with its desire persistent, remnant, and present, with darkness having migrated from exteriority to interiority, our relations with it shift on psycho-mythic registers, and we seek for the unseen darkness in the human as we once sought the unseen light of god.  so the human disappears, while our seeking, while remaining infinite, turns toward our absent selves.

in the age of knowledge, with the human more tangibly and relatively omnipresent, omnipotent, and omniscient than god once was, darkness becomes the ungraspable, apocalypse the dream, disintegration the hope.

only flesh in its darkest knowledge can rise to look light in the eye.

to love darkness is to avoid in its entirety the statement – let there be light (and consequently let there be …, which is always and simply a variation) – and rather remain hovering on voids, exhorting nothing.  this is no statement of fate, any more than let there be light or money or love or knowledge be statements of fate, but of the indivisibility of fate and freedom and chance.  this indivisibility is darkness.

to exist on the margins – but rather, no:  to exist in places those with money and hierarchical social power name as outside the light, their light – and not attempt to move (or rather to move only among these places so named by such) is to subject one’s selves (oneselves) to visions that, in language, are given by and to darkness, but outside of language (or rather in languages other than language), and this outside given to a deeper darkness:  that of not knowing whether the visions are comprised of light or darkness.

to see, it is said, requires light.  and yet can we not say that the blind-from-birth see, yet through language.  words are dark eyes.  language has the capacity to bypass light and see.  this is its energy – energy that subverts the power of the beasts of the world and the screams and resentments they plod on.

and so when we say in the beginning was the word, we know the word existed before light, and the word was void, and vision was only the capacity to remain in relation to word.  so technology permits new paths of remaining in relation, new patterns of darkness, new visions of creating.

i take the lights of society and weave them – though weaving be now an art of industry – with the scattered skeins of my flesh’s black thread.  how do i know this weaving when its schools are destroyed and its masters dead?  i take my lessons in the night, i read the texts of void.  madness becomes my lover and emptiness my friend.

mysticism, as its more visible sibling, society, takes on darkness as root metaphor rather than light – for darkness is the present greater energy.

i am oriented to those without names in the world – not as any advocate to give them names or to protest their namelessness or even to judge the named in their greed for names and all that clambering entails or to become through advocacy or other means among the named – but as a naturalized citizen of the tribe of the anamed.  i recognize my kinspeople; we are those who find it difficult to breathe in the air of names; we are those whose rough and disturbing comfort is wandering in the darkness between creation and destruction, affirmation and protest, between the ruling and the ruled.  we are the nomads of darkness.  should we – through chance or fortune or talent or love – come too close to the republic of names, we cannot help but sabotage any process of citizenry that might be thrust upon us … neither through denial nor hate but an eyed and replete acceptance … and return to our people, the people of night and the impossible eternity of words, those who stumble, without object, objects, through the alleys in those dark regions that connect city and soul.

darkness ii

to pass over in a plane a city at night – is this not a vision less of the indication of civilized constructs of a species and more of the stirred dreams in the human looking down?  and when the plane moves from its island of light to oceans of darkness, what then the dreams?

we may be better thinking less of darkness as anything visual and more as sound.  not silence, for only the space between darkness and light would be silent, but atonal moods at the margins of noise.

we know that darkness – like eternity, justice, love, light, goodness – doesn’t exist in any raw or pure form. thus what we call darkness is always an admixture with light and so its ratios – the amount of light in it – are always shifting.  darkness is variegated and impurified light.

darkness is less darkness and more our giving ourselves over to it.  darkness is the gift of ourselves, a yielding without object.

night is simply day made visible, for isn't crepuscularity the onset of the unknown?

enlightenment if it is anything is endarkenment.

isn’t darkness life that has not been turned into an event and so the overwhelming bulk of life?

aren’t there literatures of light and literatures of darkness?  in the former, tristram shandy, shakespeare’s comedies, orlando, aristophanes, groups and atolls of others; in the latter almost everything.  between but on darkness’ side a range from hamlet to the master and margarita.  this may make it seem as if light laughs, darkness weeps or is mute.  and this is not untrue.  but rather, to be literature, both laugh and weep and are mute.  it is more that the former enter existence through social ritual, the latter through the grave.  both are insufficient comedies, different genres of wit.

that the mystics experience light when through their circles of ordeals, that the dying see tunnels of light, that the supposed achievement of the guru and the goal of the spiritually seeking is enlightenment … all this points only to darkness containing within it its opposite, a concentration of everything, at its center, a sphere with almost no diameter, and this almost-not-thereness only increasing its potency and apparency in the overwhelming black.

what is the distance between you and i, i and i, between memory and forgetting, the unseen and the seen?  aren’t these distances darkness?

this wiring that connects light to life and goodness and truth, darkness to death and evil and falsity – only a particular standard in the linguistic-energy configurations of the universe.  what would rewire us to new standards of possibilities and impossibilities?  where might be the vision to become wireless in ourselves, all connecting to all and from all, the playful and free democracies of consciousness?

necessity perhaps is related to darkness as freedom is, in some collective-oneiric genealogy.  and light?  is light the manufactured apparati that permit screenings of the familial relationships?  the dubious, searing, and unmitigated beams of civilization and culture turned on our irrevocable and lost origins?

if i must speak your language to understand it, is darkness all the speakings i have not spoken, that have not summoned me to enter them?  if so, don’t i live and speak in darkness and my little languages, these candle flickerings, which so often seem to the i as stars larger than the universe, primarily indicators of what i do not know?

so ignorance and darkness and doubt may be the only and vague harbingers of truth, and what we call knowledge an edifice of falsities.  the human in its bulk places its bets on the latter, but the odds of time are set in obscure places, and hardly read.

in the light of knowledge, darkness is no longer possible.  i simulate it in the laboratories of the absent.  i package it in capsules of varied legalities, shoot it in the wretched alleys of god.  i visit the prostitute of art.  i am laid down in the soils of the damned.  these are my rites and sex, my semiotics of love.

darkness

darkness and homelessness are siblings in time’s dysfunctional family.  in a present odd reunion – a poorly attended affair that’s rented my flesh for its drugged party – i find solace in darkness, i sleep in the cardboard box of my blood; familial lineages glide before me in runny colours and difficult flatulences.

the realms of visible politics – identity, sex, gender, ethnicity – are the shibuya of the human psyche … but the realms of invisible politics – sanity, eloquence, blood, beauty, virtue – are the pissed slums of neglected urbanscapes.  the latter are my home; daily i uncoil my diseased prick and whiz on the future.  melancholic jötunn suck me off with their gums and we collapse into night’s putrescent kingdoms.

i wake up daily in a bed of death

i say to the shadow called day –

i will crawl into you

i will make you my companion

we will play together as if we were friends.

but i long for the prayers of dreams

i lust though for the shadow of sleep

death is my lover, the grave my mentor

day – night’s useful mask, void’s awkward other

evening waits like a warm and dirty bath

how beautiful when darkness draws us into her

that dread of this ever-present waking

darkness is not an absence of light, but is polar to and interacting with light; light is the simplest most undivided, homogenous being we know … confronting it is darkness:  infinitely plural, divisive … and so infinitely creative.  colours – shadow and the children of shade – are light itself.  colour is born of and feeds on darkness.

darkness evolves environmentally:  as humans migrate into contexts of perpetual light, so darkness – our deepest need – is constructed and accessed in novel and fabricated ways by these emerging creatures of light.  the materials, maps, hazards, portals, labyrinths, signage, risk management practices and false exits of these fresh routes – the comparison of these to those of the worn ones – all this giving new life to darkness … or rather to humans in their cravings for infinite relations.

at light’s highest point on its ladder, the darkness of things presents itself to me as the simmering surfaces of light.  but at the apex of darkness on itself, how do i see light?  as the animation of darkness?  a misspelling?  as the remnant that questions, dark’s tongue?  a hope that subverts even hope?

any authentic notion of divinity – or at least that of the human unhinged from its overwhelming greeds and incarcerating self-reflections, and so the human not itself – must include that which is oriented to seeing in darkness, regardless of whether it can speak.  divinity is independent of language, and any future notion of the writer, of the book, might place vision – not word – at the center of its dark art.

do i wait for day or do i wait for night?  my orientation to this question determines my comfort with society.

knowledge, while it may be acquainted with day – most certainly an esteemed and professional colleague at times, on occasion a spouse – is night’s lover.

if we were to compare the conversations of night with the conversations of day, with humans being novel to us, would we not conclude we were dealing with two separate species?  so darkness is a language, and who would give themselves to its mastery? and how can it be taught but in unaccredited and disavowed classrooms?

are not the translation arts between the languages of light and the languages of darkness more of darkness, for they are rooted in obscure soils and hardly seed or flower?

to say we are born of darkness and return to darkness neglects that we never leave – we are simply given briefly eyes to see it.

knowledge, unknowledge, and the immaterial orders iv

cross the bridge of sighs in your robes of doubt.  sing to the punters of ends.  expose yourself to time and may it violate you.  ascend to wicker prisons of fire and burn.  burn your histories and your myths.  burn your pathetic tears.  burn your love and love.  burn your stupid jokes.  fire is the answer and is always the answer.  and the question?  isn’t everything the question?

knowledge is ledge construction and maintenance and pricing and profitability and enforcement, the ledgers of ledges, unknowledge is no ledge or ledgers, and the immaterial orders are the battle and unity of both.

i walk along my segments of the infinite corridors of knowledge, limping like ulysses, soap in my pocket like leopold, a little butterfly dreaming of better butters, the clouds are labia marching to an unknown war, the concrete sun-dried scrotums, and all’s well, all’s well, all’s always well.

take my hand or my prick or my hernia or something and take me down the well of yourself and show me the knowledge that isn’t there and slice me to death with your perfections.  oh my impossible love.  i have learned how to walk around inside my head.  it may sound silly to you but it’s very helpful to me.

i would like to be a white-robed candle on a hill, chanting pee-wee quotes, burning dumbly.  i would like to be some little retorts.  somewhere in the yucatan mayhaps.  then i would belong to the cult of the human and know the rituals of knowledge and walk the walls of names.  i would know the wellness of wells.  i would know knowledge like i know myself.  then i would shine with the light of the dead gods and reflect the mirrors hiding in the folds of clouds.  but i am not what i would like to be.  i am not what i would seem.  i am precisely the sum of the negations of this text.    

knowledge, unknowledge, and the immaterial orders iii

the sun sets on man.  how many times do we need to be told this?  genocide has more meaning.  the sun rises on another day and the day jumps around and barks the way days do and licks my balls in just that special way, and the sun rises, and it rises it also rises, and hemingway is orlando and orlando is walt and walt is in your wallet and your wallet’s blood has spilt and it is empty.  this is what i see on the set of the sun, its pretty bombed hemoglobin stage.  oh monks.  oh monks of my lecherous mind.  build me stages of pebbles, construct theaters of suffering.  take me by the prick into fields of fading labia.  autumn.  today is the first full day of autumn and winter looms like aphrodite in her drunkenness.

hooters is across from me.  condos parade their compassionate faces before our forsaken redemptive world.  coffee loves me.  the hare in my ass is lively and angry and stuck.  it’s going to be a good day.

you haven’t heard it said that the limits of knowledge is the onset of spiritual menstruation.  you haven’t heard it said that to explore the limitless with the limited is the most dumbest  thing and the most central human act making the human the most dumbest thing.  you haven’t heard.  you haven’t read.  you haven’t lived.  you haven’t had.  you.  you.  you you ma.  you you ma ma.

nothing solves tummy aches like tum tums.  tum tums and death.  and death does it better.  death tums.  tum tum de tum tum

rilke taught me something once.  taught me something on his ladder of torture.  but i forget.

nothing solves tummy aches like nothing.  or a rabid rabbit up your butt.

i think of all the teachers i’ve had.  professors, prostitutes, priests, pedants, philosophers, pedophiles, poets, pipers, piped.  and i have to say.  the rabbit competes.

who is more glorious?  alice coltrane, alice in wonderland, alice the girl next door, or alice the closet inside?  i asked this of the oracle and you know what i think i saw her pointing to in the pyretic tundra of words?  alice.

fucker.

i stand on knowledge’s skinny windowsill, pretending i’m cleaning glass.  the dead birds raining don’t help much.  the rabbit helps.  the rabbit and the oracle.  the rabbit and the oracle and the pebble and pee wee and the memory of the dentist and dead mister disney.  everything helps.

woe to you who take the sheets of knowledge and cut them into itty pieces and gouge out eyes and stuff them in your deep pockets and call yourself well.

this is knowledge.  to sit on the toilet some fucked up morning and sing the praises of flighty fate.  to lie below a once-loved corpse and love it even more.  to walk through the sewers on superbowl sunday and compose unfunny jokes and laugh.  to talk as if talking were something other than talking but know it isn’t.  to go to galleries and piss on the heads of oneself.  to collect sheep, placing them one by one in mason jars, labeling each carefully according to burton and archimedes and allen and john, and show them to your girlfriends or boyfriends or whatevers or just yourself and you are the sheep.  you are the sheep and the rabbit and the dentist and the dead.  when google tolls, it tolls for thee.