they're speaking

in other structures of time a council – we could call it a council – met (we could say it’s meeting) somewhere in the roundabout of species, human wasn’t invited, as a spontaneous gesture of thinking nature. fungus, bacterium, amphibian, water and fire, insect, mammal, spider, everyone important really

during the gathering it’s agreed fish will lead the way and fish, being smart and woefully tired of human negligence and stupidity, team up with virus which, like human, hasn’t been invited and exists on the edges of life. how perfect thought fish to partner with a dubious life form to attack another dubious life form. does fish volunteer for this mission? does it owe the others one? is it the big risktaker or just in the mood? we don’t have the minutes and no one’s talking. or no one’s listening. hard to tell

where do we start fish asks virus

china … wuhan

should it be a warning or should we really get them

warnings have never worked with humans, the vast majority only respond to fear and force

and the council moves its venue to the distributed convention center of human flesh so it has front row seats to watch

with respect ...

with respect to madness language is always somewhere else

literature – from poetry to philosophy to its consummate present example, the novel – has become the story : exploration through narrative, typically human narrative. it has relegated madness - literature’s precarious soul - to the inaccessible, the autistic, mentally ill, deranged, the solipsistic, the virus …   but these – regardless of whatever names they might appear to be attached to – have always been literature’s true home. and the definitionmongers, the rationalists, the prize and list people, the storyists in their infinite discomforts do what the spiritually insecure have always done – use force of whatever quality to displace their insecurities far from the sterile spaces they inhabit, even as the privileged displace garbage and pollution as far as possible from them geographically : onto the poor, unheard, inhuman

story was mad insofar as it was born from the placed derangement (a derangement that because of its place had real range, range of touchable knowable unknowable divine land) of the tribe, but as story’s become separated from this tribal ecstasy it becomes formulaic, conventional, conformist, expected … and so not literature

so those called to remain committed to literature in these darks ages of the word – when madness is still manifest in the garrets and cellars of music and film for reasons primarily technological – the exploration of madness and the exploration of literature become effectively the same. so psychology – not the academic laboratory variety that dominates in lit and official corridors but the kind that oozes like pus from the psyche itself – and word become bound, psychology and psychologies of word and words literature’s practice. the mental illness of the word, its dysfunctions and taboos, schizophrenias and pharmaceuticals, shunned babblings, urological rants ... these are literature's narrative. the writer takes each word to the couch even as each word takes the writer. not to any effect. effect is academic psychology’s domain. literature in effect is the record of word and writer taking each other there … to noplace (the utopia that is no utopia … not just noplace but no noplace – and the no’s as affixes may be stacked like turtles on the back of a collapsed universe, universes of places of diaspora, exile, apophatic mappedness) of the empty question

how then does literature dissolve its identity through technology in the way (but in its own way and ways) that music has done. (we discount film for film’s born of technology whereas music, ancient and fleshy, comprehensively tedious and weary by 1912, had to break through [we set aside all those for now seductive pathways of film as nature filtered through preexistent but previously underused dimensions, music as first technology, literature as cosmic babel, ... all pathways dreamt, all arguments made.].) music has accomplished its recreation, its identities and doubts, drones and genre asylums through the synthesizer – the ability to patch everything onto everything, anything onto anything, all nothings on nothings … through enabling sonic life as music. when i walk down a helhi street and hear honkings, harassments, dogs barking, sun screeching ... it's as if to me i’m sitting in my sunroom listening to an lp. you can say – but literature is this. not in its common talk and trade but on its edges. even a name like dfw does this. and he was mad. he suicided after all and that’s a good sign. sure, but sterne was edgy, mad too and didn’t suicide. (madness now’s more mad. or rather madness now has farther to travel to reach literature even as literature has farther to travel to reach madness. they need more patches, infinities, more nothings ... they need to forget society, themselves. and this takes so much ... effort ...)

literature craves to be unrecognizable, lusts after anonymity (art's altar and eucharist) in these polluted seas of name refuse. literature should be so much ourselves we don’t see ourselves. the uncanniness is too present. we shall seem to be wholly absent and in this hole we are here. dfw and his family are recognizable, his fragmented stories the shapes and blabs of our currency

atonal literature, astory literature, areason literature, aliterature literature, literature defying currency, written by the cthulhu ... for the cthulhu aren't the hideous other but the hideous us. organic life! love and hate! human passions, conditions, standards! one only needs to travel well into the soul that hoards toilet paper in our increasingly visible species narcissistic times to see this usotherness. this travel and need is literature. not as fact but horror

i don’t hear you

i don’t see you

i hardly understand

i can’t read

the word through its endless interrogations reanimates. rejoins, reintroduces thing and name, renatures language. each word is spirit in infinite language forests. not one spirit but countless. and as spirits amorphously drift, each word (most alchemically, most mystically) drifts into all others. each word’s in each word and for the writer, as the writer’s just another word, in it. not as god or christ is in the christian. this is hierarchical, separate. but as gods in gods, mycelium in trees, air in fire, water in dream. so as academic psychology attempts to effect identity (and effecting transgressive identity still follows the conventional path of identity effecting) for social relation (even if this relation is protest, rebellion, shock), the psychology of literature (hardly any different than the literature of psychology) enters the identity of word to travel to identity’s dissolution. while this journey is paramount, literature appears as the writer as journalist depicts as closely as possible the effects of the movings into words’ identity’s dissolution on its inveterate physicality, the wholesale range and limits of its sensations. as journalist. (though we must acknowledge it should be obvious that our journalist is as different from the common one – no matter how noble, influential, sacrificial, perspicacious – as our psychologists and scholars are different than those pedigreed among fluorescent peers and gowns and lecterns)

with respect to language language is always somewhere else

with respect to madness …

with respect to respect …

with respect to somewhere else …

with disrespect to …
without disrespect ...

without language …

without without    

last mooologues

a full moon hangs over the NH station end of main bizarre in jagnahrap impossible ... what's the moon in any form even doing in hellhi? it isn't what's normally considered to be the moon but some conglomerated mass of coagulated spherical pollution says a cow to my left. you're right i say surprised at the clarity of my friend's truth. let's go to cannot place and see if it's still there i say. like a plop it'll be there says cow, and she's right. why's it following us? i stupidly wonder. that's what pollution does says cow. follow. until one day it gets tired of following and begins to lead. and when will that be oh cow? i ask realizing my companion's something of a sage

who can know the mind of garbage

and who can reason with refuse

only those who eat its bounty

and graze on its tutelage

says what might be the moon

pollution speaks i gasp. everything speaks says cow a bit condescendingly. when will this happen i persist, when will garbage begin to lead us? but cow's humming nursery rhymes from udder perdition and instead of talking we watch the coagulation trace unknown omens in the bloodgrey sky over a sick & texty earth

an uncanny family of the rabbit biome at dashayogssimagat temple

to be a debeliever in christianity in rome in 1313, to be a debeliever in capitalism on earth in 2020 

to be a human debeliever. no one else cares about capitalism other than in terms of its genocidal effects on them

impossible to debelieve. to want then to debelieve. to debelieve in the capacity to debelieve and remain biologically alive. to detest having to believe. knowing any protests, subversions, heresies, terrorist acts – however external or internal – are wholly destined to be ineffective at best and at worst used by capitalism to further itself. so one does the only thing one can do – one goes on the interior paths. for while no more effective, while no less usurped for use, at least something is constructed – however doomed – that says – though in another world – no

the different tactics and strategies for martyrdom, survival, subversion, play, desire, dream between rome 1313 and earth 2020 debelief

for some time in istanbul i have vivid memories of jerusalem though i’ve never been and develop a convincing narrative that the cocoa chestnut merchants of istanbul (they are only chestnut merchants but when chestnuts are roasted they appear to be coated in chocolate) are from jerusalem and at nights cross the bosphorus to hang as bats in a cave in kadiköy. while implausible the story pleases and i spend hours walking developing the lives and troubles of these misplaced and transmutational peoples and as i pass the chestnut merchants i smile and though i don’t buy any chestnuts they smile back. we know, the chestnut merchants and i, their difficult origins and nocturnal rites. i can’t participate in them, for i haven’t shared in their travails, but i can ask what’s it like to be a chestnut merchant? what’s it like to be a memory? what’s it like to be the bosphorus? what’s it like to be a chestnut? what’s it like to be a ...?

i watch time crawl along

the edge of death without ever falling

in and think – if it were me
there i wouldn’t be so skilled, crawling

i have a date with the sock factory today

the things that people say you cannot do

i don’t think outside the box, i think outside outside

she who saves one life saves the entire world

an istanbul street

cat behind nairobi carpet

import merchants eats

the little black train is coming

travelling alone, unfiltered. to immerse oneself in polydimensional dream ... to maintain reality as a question, substantives as prepositions, to place i in the question of eyes, to simulate the mind of rivers, to present humanity not as gift but mirage, hallucination, plasmatic text

corona adds yet another dimension to the already loaded airport process. in delhi i present six pieces of documentation to the immigration dood before i’m let through – including a form validating i’m low corona risk, which has been stamped by health officials after being processed through an earlier lengthy line of laser beams being aimed at my head, interrogations (and similar processes already experienced twice in kathmandu)

what is this, my seventh time in delhi? and the first i’ve arrived when i don’t hate it. don’t i keep returning, fascinated by my hatred, compelled to recreate this monster as something i can relate to?

apophatic machine munchies

there are the young and boring, and there are the old and boring. the young and boring i can sometimes tolerate for 3 or 9 minutes. the old and boring i can't tolerate at all. why is this if they're equally boring?

an indifference to self is in direct proportion to an apophatic immersion in self

the young exploit this knowledge mercilessly. this is their innocent vanity and antidote to the preposterous wealth of the establishment

the orthodoxy that there's only one world, this world. and thus i must adapt to it. bullshit. no art (or much of anything else) would exist in such a spiritual-aesthetic straightjacket. consciousness, imagination, wit, subversion, play, creation - they're all of other worlds

the hello boat? of veri nici shifts to the smoke hashish? of cat human sadoo. and so my response changes from my name is not boat to a robust you bet i do - which in its enthusiastic explicitness shuts the merchants up

i too am ageist. i shun the old - not because they're more boring than the young ... but it's this quality of the notold - the power to believe in things (which if it lingers in the old just seems stupid) in the oceanic nothingness of their bodies - that i suck on like a perpetually reincarnated planet on the teats of the universe. (there are tricks for maintaining and even increasing this quality along the biological path. they're in code, not much in words, and seekers after them must learn the dark languages light speaks

when i'm open to conversation with tourists while travelling i stay in hostels. but in cat human sadoo i intentionally stay in a comfortable quiet guest house whose clientele primarily consists of the old and boring. this grants me the abyss of undistraction. i ensure i look as crazy as possible so that no one talks to me. their overheard conversations - which i tolerate to a point before putting my headphones on - are hideous

mary got a new french bulldog

but the skillset of doctors ...

just terrible what's happening in china

i read that churchill said that fear ...

don't forget to use your hand sanitizer

thailand's just lovely

a recent issue of partynepal magazine has young beautiful nepali saying the same things as the young and beautiful in magazines everywhere. come on. young and beautiful and magazined. surprise me

dat cat can moo

and matt can do

in kathmandu

and you?

another trope i've begun using is to say i'm from jupiter when asked of my domesticity, that i've come to earth because we've heard humans aren't taking good care of it and we jupiterians are concerned. i've got engaged in numerous lengthy conversations with this as a starting point. some seem, especially by the end, unsure whether to believe me

a related mythology i've developed - in response to the now routine offers of hash - is that where i'm from our kitchen sinks have nine faucets - for water, absinthe, psilocybin, ayahuasca, mdma, lsd, caffeine, hash, tobacco. on my planet starschmucks offers bhanguccinos and hash lattes. etc etc

at swayambhunath stupa a local engages me and we talk for half an hour about ecology, consciousness, politics. then the expected happens - he hawks holiness on me and tries to sell himself as my guru. i laugh and say i don't believe in holiness, at least in humans. maybe in mycelium. the conversation ends. capitalism again announces itself as the only cataphatic religion left on earth

to the carnivorous religious - you've been a {christian, buddhist, moslem, jew, hindu, ...} for how long and you're still obsessed with stuffing? (how quickly kenosis becomes forgotten, ... turns into concept, abstraction, disembodied knowledge)

the walls are thin in the guest house and the couple next door after conversing tediously for an hour have if possible even more tedious sex. 4 little moans from her, that's it. then someone goes to the bathroom. then she pukes all night. i want to see what they look like, i don't want to see what they look like

eye ear u doodoo

the middleaged european male tourists here - gross, beefy, jowly, like loudly talking statues reciting scripts that should never have been thought let alone written. like wax sculptures in the colonial archives, with an 8-track on infinite loop playing, made of their own earwax, the dumps, hoards & anys, balls'n'arrows of a meaty overcooked stegosaurus with too much sugary testosterone sauce. someone needs to spraypaint them pink, put arsenic on their testicles, wildflowers in their maws

why is kooba so much more difficult than asia?

no english no wifi no food

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