necroaesthetics

she is solitary. under a lot of pressure. committed as ever to her cause, but i would imagine feeling somewhat defeated, tired, and pissed.

            this princess leia pez dispenser

writing – and by this i mean poetry, writing’s conscience and concupiscence, not poetry necessarily in any substantive sense but that which breaks through language the spirit of language in the human – lacks volition and in this lack substitutes desire. that poetry seems to be contained in that other writing, and that in this, gives writers a distinct advantage and disadvantage alongside other artists. with the former, they work with the most common human element – so always (ostensibly) available; with the latter, the inbred schizophrenic choreographies are so omnipotent, omnipresent, and impotent that the work is constantly falling into itself, this element so polluted by history who can still give oneself over to it?

let it all be animal, my life and death, hard and clean like that, anything but human … a lot i care, me with my red heart in the dark earth and my tattooed feet following the animal ways

i am now beginning to understand the languages of dreams and fungi more than the human languages ...

the chinese poet du fu in 758 complains about his office job …

i am about to scream madly in the office

especially when they bring more papers to pile higher on my desk

a problem with and enticement of interiority is that one can reach the abyss with sufficient time and work (this perhaps is the record of mysticism and poetry); the abyss, though, is always just beyond, with exteriority … isn’t this why we’ve migrated from poetry and religion to prose and science?

            though this just beyond – is it not just a just beyond hiding in the reaching?

even with 7.5 billion of us vertical now, the human dead outnumber the human living 14:1

i wiggle tubes into the heat of my decay, suck on them. what cold fire. i almost don’t need food. food makes me sick anyway, makes my gut curl into itself, my ass splutter its garbage. i eat the vapours of myself and become some elemental thing. my eyes are a periodic table of putrefaction. i record my rot, the artist-i a coroner, the rest a body farm.

exhibition is a practice to produce permanence, to arrest decay

https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2014/sep/29/earthearth has lost half of its wildlife in the past 40 years-lost-50-wildlife-in-40-years-wwflate capitalismhttps://www.versobooks.com/books/1570-24-7 and the ends of sleep

tosf - art obio

the online sadoo family – #6

autoarto:artoauto - Art Obio
http://artobio.blogspot.ca/

1. we’re born from oneness and die to it, live between in hapless fragmentings
2. life, our lives, are unities we can’t directly see but can be felt in rare or occasional moments, what some call mysticism, romance, friendship, war, work, love, fucking, art, god, nature, sport, …
3. integration, wholeness are experiences, attitudes we can orient ourselves to fully and joyfully, this consummate light, omega puncta, noosphere of noospheres
4. unity in any form other than the transient and ephemeral body is a monist illusion, a hangover from some more primitive and less knowledgeable age, an old and tired language
5. i am one and not-one, not-one and many, null and three and seventy-eight
6. stories are pushed from my mind’s sphincter not to decry my past, not to delude any truth, not to fulfill individuation or will, not to satisfy some story-making dna, not to drown in bouncy joy, nor to dance nor drown
7. i make my death as i do my birth. i make my sainthood as my vileness
8. my body is my autobiography (my autobodography), ever unwritten (unless breath be word)
9. the autobiographies i write are more my life than my life; this more becomes their writing
10. the autobiographies i write are less my life than my life; this less becomes their writing
11. who are you in your eyes to join me in this more and less? who are we in our blindness to play at becoming alongside?

i am always becoming born and my death – so it goes – is just another birth

art obio was written to write about the writing of becoming born

art puts up dick pics – why?

not for some mapplethorpean porn-cum-art magic show (hey – that’s being done by maplecorp – visit 1380 sherbrooke o), not to primly show half of what we’re born from, not because he likes his, not to play with batteries, not for statements, not to not to … oh, you make up the reason(s) …

art obio is a citizen of the tundra of the soul, tirelessly works in the non-profit industry. it awakens in horizonless whiteness, sleeps on footstools of ice. its passport is its penis, its government the stories of its sphincter

when we say art is the only reality, the rest imagination, reversing (in that peculiar politics – language) the brutal substantiality of daily life, is this but an upgrade (downgrade? sidegrade?) on those geriatric patriarchal paternalistic white-washed eurocentric myths?

art? art doesn’t know

sadoo next - el-spet clitia

gravity doesn't exist (but grace, simone?)

four humans/strangers tell me this past week they know someone who looks like me. one of my sons used to call me standard face based on my telling him i would periodically be asked, for example, where the toothpaste was at the drugstore, as if i had one of those toothpaste-knowledge-whereabouts faces.

naturally, i conclude i’m being cloned or am one. i feel indifferent about this knowledge. raises those tired doubts about consciousness.

what makes all this slightly more engaging is that these reminders of my facial genericism occur as i read that it’s realistic to expect that by 2050 we’ll be able to have satisfying and reasonably simulated sex with robots. a clone and robot getting it on. i’ll try to stay alive until i can see how if at all that sort of fling differs from the old-fashioned chaos and boredom of presumed flesh with presumed flesh.

janis – freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose

janus – nothing left to lose, but freedom

i’m out of the closet as a vaguely polygamist celibate aromantic, protesting (with similar vagaries) amatonormativity –

http://everydayfeminism.com/2016/04/amatonormativity-expectations/

my social housing co-op governance like an antibiotic – gets rid of the bad stuff (through antibiotic force, here the law) … but equally the good stuff too; consequently, the entire system – its vitality – has gradually weakened through a continual barrage on productive bacteria

art, a mode of play, wants to be played

one of myriad methods i use is watching movies to alternative audio:

recently i play sfumato (a painterly film about a painter) to the story of moondog followed by evangelista’s boy; then cremaster 2 (bjork's ex's uberstylissimo dandypiece) to esmerine’s dalmak followed by subotnick’s silver apples of the moon

            contrapuntalities emerge, unintentional intentionalities, definitions and meaning as weather, i chings of art

   age gracefully?

i’ll age with the same turmoil, adrenalin, order, doubt, disdain, acceptance, horror, ecstasy as i’ve always aged, the body manifesting in gross recurrence without adjectives

   sure, call it grace 

mystical landscapes

visiting toronto from mumbai recently, i treated myself to the mystical landscapes exhibit at the art gallery of ontario. aside from any specific surprises, disappointments or expected delights, some more general impressions:

canada’s troupe (including carr and the group of seven) plunge into god as well or better than most of the rest of that presented world

the extra-thick crowds around van gogh, while not unjustified (the represented starry night is powerful) and not as wholesale an absurdity as the gaggling routine camera competition around the louvre’s mona lisa, remind of something mostly to be forgotten

humans (and other animals) – while thick as art voyeurs on the exhibit floor – are almost entirely absent from the art. yes, we can say this emerges partially from the period – mostly a century ago, the selection process, in which a certain strain of artists struggled with the increasing potency and pervasiveness of a technocapitalistic society by withdrawing from its human and industrial faces. but it is not just this (and related factors)

the divine vision – almost however we define it, palpably elusive in definition though it must be – places the human alongside the myriad creatures, without ascendancy … and how then can it appear in greater proportion than the entirety of creation – almost [but not quite] nothing, an aspect among teeming aspects of the creator, oneness, the universe, thingness, irreducible and vast complexity, love (call it what you want)

starry night has, for example, some humans, blurred individuals, hardly individuals, forms of sorts really, in the foreground, but small, more like re-shaped stars … and those other stars (the original ones, our likely destiny), those popping out like thoughts in god’s universal mind are the backdrop and centerpiece of the drama, the settlements and affairs of earth like icharus rippling into the sea in auden’s poem or bruegel’s painting … a reality to be sure, but one like a shutter being closed or opened on some lane in a village beside drying laundry in dusty-sunny air, clouds working nonchalantly as they do on their important projects

and now? a century later? 6 billion more humans, the urbanized percentage having risen from 13 to 58%,12 cities with more than 1,000,000 humans leaping to over 400, technology our skin and consciousness, god in an unmarked grave, capitalism like nero in an rpg of rpgs, art a useless caboose, a used tampon, a credit limit of vision, a dream journal, a cosmic rosary, a desert song … now … where are the mystic landscapes and those who paint them? with the soul made of garbage rather than numinous emptiness, how shall we ascend descend migrate to the forbidden light?

around the time nietzsche went mad, georges-albert aurier wrote – and this quote is prominent in the ago’s exhibit –

we must become mystics again. mysticism is what we need today; only mysticism can save our society from brutalization, sensualism and utilitarianism. the noblest faculties of our soul are atrophying … we must react.

is this sentiment even translatable in 2016?

(the journalistic reports on the exhibit in the dailies suggest in their expected prose thudding lightly across pragmatic landscapes that mysticism isn’t for everyone – a little out of place really – but that they’re glad at least the results exist even if the origins seem somewhat off to the orthodox)

does the more contemporary reel-unreel short shot in kabul (on the ago’s 5^th floor presently) hold hints?  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3IuEM4w7Gbc

do the films on https://vimeo.com/videovectors ?

the paintings in http://bernardlegay.fr/ ?

the sounds on https://thenidus.bandcamp.com/ ?

the dancing dead, holding hands across the waking world?

tosf - kali que lipzo

the online sadoo family – #5

It’s Your Mommy - kali que lipzo
http://itsyourmommy.blogspot.ca/2016/07/its-your-mommy.html

I carried a dead child wrapped in ribbons along the river between my mother's place of birth and my father's place of birth. That child was me.

I took refuge in the woods, streams, fields with animals to escape the nuisance of humans. I went through green places, blue places, white places, indeterminate places where only nature in its indifference is present. I watered those places with my cum, my blood and my shit.

I am a negentropivore. I have gone to the end of poetry as to the end of myself, where the only light is the light of bowels. Repay the island of the dead. This ruderal mise en abîme in the field of the immeasurable defeat of art in front of reality.

I absorb the world, I'm reshaped by the duende of words.

           

sadoo next - art obio

tosf - idia møme

the online sadoo family – #4

idia møme – idia møme
http://idiamome.blogspot.ca/

idia møme is silly. is idia møme silly only in contrast to the seriousness with which most treat themselves, a seriousness idia itself views as silly? is it silly because it doesn’t believe in because, because idia is the ablative feminine first person plural form of idiot and møme the infrahortative transgendered nil person post-numbered form of meme, because it’s born in dialogue in villa atamisqui and dies outside, because i’s a reality, a convention, a delusion, and a party?

øøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøø

sadoo møme is a toothpick among toothpicks translating the questions among toothpicks to questions among us. if it believes in anything it believes everything talks to everything endlessly and the task of listening to this endless everything talking is a primary task of the human. since sadoo idia’s a toothpick among toothpicks it talks, and leaves listening, that distinction, to us.

sadoo next - kali que lipzo

writing xi

as technology increases so writing, but whereas writing once had to negotiate spheres apart from technology to enter itself, now its negotiations are those within. we trek into the traced tracing unknowns of interior madnesses (no madnesses though, but reflecting unreflectings), seeking what we imagine as memories of those spheres apart, but might rather be the principles of the operations of technology itself.

writing’s dialogue with emptiness is more a waiting in a plenitude of voices until they don’t cancel each other out but become so accustomed to plurality and seeming contradictoriness that no-place (hardly a utopia, hardly dystopian) becomes a ground and this ground (or rather a seeming lack) becomes a dialogue (or rather dialogues) without resolution or resolve. emptiness is a never-ending deluge of names, writing its film.

that writing and waiting are a letter apart – and this the difference between a soft consonant and a diphthongian vowel – is a mark of history:  messiah never comes, nor the antichrist, not equality or analogical collapse, not love or peace except in measures of indifference and strife … but waiting and with it signs, signs of waiting.

i have said in the darkness – and said too in the light that darkness wears – that saying is looking through an unelectric window onto orange clouds in canopies of infinitely nested canopies. (but in the darkness saying looks at many things.)

i do not write. my body writes. and my body – this i that other bodies call an i but at most seems some placeholder for the collapse and choreography of innumerable i’s – is written by the non-sum of confusions of these callings. so what is sometimes called activity and passivity, i and us, flesh and word, calling and looking, in writing lose distinction, and this losing seems what writing is or becomes or writes.

non sum qualis eram

that humans seem ancillary to writing, that the book (in that other language) seems of origins or placement, and all this as otherness, as writing and even humans seem ancillary to themselves could be (for those who write anyway) not much … not much … if it weren’t for these words rooted in a soiled heart.

the universe is made of words, not photons, higgs bosons, waves, or whatever the physicists sing to us in their incomprehensible and cloned ballads. or rather – the universe is made of photons but these no more than pitayas or windmills. words are the elementary particles and scientists just those who’ve deluded bulky followers into accepting the false supremacy of their tiny dictionaries.

writing, it’s been written, at least of a certain quality, is honest, attaining an honesty unachievable in society’s discourse, love’s rhetoric, the academy’s presumed mathematics, and it might be this unachievability it achieves – through a ruse not quite believable – that the writer becomes addicted to. (addicted? if so, an addiction so incorporated into corporeality that it can’t be classified as such without a destruction of the classifiers.) the writer, though – if it’s of this uncertain quality – doesn’t particularly feel it has attained any distinction but is moved in configurations that from the perches of other discourses, rhetorics, mathematics, could be called almost anything.

in other words, the writer’s speaking from society’s non-speaking plays less on axes of truth and falsehood, more along, through circuits of non-speaking

… this writing of non-speaking a lipless smirk, an unwept tear

the writer’s distance, if it be a distance, is of such a function as to be an equivalence of the within it’s distant from