sadoo the nerval 4

the novel has become too easy

anyone whos been to iowa can write one

anyone whos been accepted into the right clique can write a good one

anyone whos been to both can write a great one

but theres so many great novels being written therere no great ones left

the only novel left to write isnt the horrible one  there are as many horrible ones as great ones  but the nonexistent one   sadoo is my nonexistence

why is sadoo a novel?

for the same reason genets a saint

saints define the novel  which is only mind spilled and spilling  as having these characteristics

• ephemerality
• contradictoriness
• infinitely nested metonymy
• anonymity through excessive naming
• aestheticspiritual coital blurring of unauthors unreaders untranslators
• utopian and uchronian
• plotless characterless dialogueless settingless
• beyond beyond and notbeyond
• more worldthanworld by being lessworldthanworld

it begins ends anywhere but neither ends nor begins

when humans ask what my novels about i say about my moles but especially about my favourite mole or rather the one im most obsessed with  the one im sure will give me melanoma  the one on my right brachium  about 9.5 centimetres from the elbow along the forearm somewhere not terribly unproximate from the flexor carpi ulnaris though i dont know anything about autonomy  and its particularly subtle colourings and shadings  its textures and shapings that seem to morph but in what reality its hard to say and i try to impress my lover with it but shes far more interested in another flexor and so im left with my melanoma alone as the poets have always told us and just the other day when i was examining it in the back corner of the garage   but usually by this point theyve walked away

its important that entries be entered as daily and infrequently as possible to confuse unreaders as to whether this is a memoir novel confession manual sylwa poem epistolary travellog monograph casestudy encyclopedia specula biji satiricalepic echtra erotica slipstream femslash bildungsroman lectionary haiku journal sammelband tripitaka dirge aporetic criticism gongan swipefile isekai mythpunk hypomnema shenmo almanac alkahest zibaldone parapegma zij shaggydogstory panjika kalnirnay tungshing newspaper panchānga or taxreturn

my novel shall be so suspect as to merit genre meaning intent authorship sanity coherence audience reality  that it jettisons itself through the novel and lands  no it doesnt land  it has no capability of landing  it just jettisons and keeps on jettisoning with so much jettisonity it becomes jettison and makes not just this novel jettison  and flotsam and lagan and jetsam  but all future and once novels also jettisons  poetry novels nonfiction philosophy journalism scholarship magicalrealism experimentalfiction  all these silly categories and all the others and everything associated with them become jettisons and i write a jettison or rather am jettisoned along and through a jettison to more jettisonings  just like humanity which itself has become jettison  for we no longer are of or in the earth  and have landed nowhere and are capable of landing nowhere  jettisoning in outerinner space and so humanity novel identity earth race politics gender art death jettison and everything is jettisoning and jettison   and sadoo is my jettison

sadoo nullitalis luv teatheetree

i  though i dont exist  am about to bathe and in preparation disrobe and due to it being cool in the house and my not wanting to turn on the heat  precipitated by a complex of complexes arising from my motherss complexes of complex relating to their unacknowledged distaste of mint knickers  im wearing many layers of clothes not only over my groin legs chest back arms but head and feet and thus the getting naked takes an inordinate amount of time and with each diminished layer i grow colder but not wishing to speed up the process due to my increasing fascination with the patterns of colour and material that are forming on the floor  a real work of art  certainly compared to the charade of this novel  and then engrossed in the counting of the increasing discarded items and debating in the synagogue of myself with no satisfactory solution anywhere in sight in time or out whether i should number each pair of socks one or two  for its questions such as these that define a good life   and spectacles? do they count? why do i say spectacles? how do spectacles count? if were interested in a certain consistency  which by no means we are  and we count each pair of socks as two items rather than one should we then not in fairness and equanimity count each pair of spectacles also as two? two feet two eyes as granny i says   as you see we say spectacles and socks favouring those who advocate two rather than one  its true we say sock for one as in have you seen my other sock? but this is typically in the context of two and surely is because socks  while bound to one another  arent bound in the same way as spectacle is to spectacle  for wouldnt we say spectacle only if your spectacles are busted  and then we might be more inclined to say have you seen the other half of my spectacles? rather than have you seen my other spectacle?  and now that were indirectly talking about them what about monocles? why dont we call them bictacles?  all this indicating something of importance the philosophers have paid too scant attention to   and all this taking place at once and in slomo but the effect growing me colder and its phenomenal i ever get into the bath

but all of this has been done before says mácedonio   the novels impossible and impassible  all the same characters tropes ideas thoughts words experiments subversions tediums selfsatisfactions laughs  one really should just count ones clothes or try to count them as one never really can end up properly doing and go to bed  one should write prologs to logs that never happen

i despise the novel more than i do myself   im always rushing around so as to be the first one to arrive late  ive no comprehension of and no way of comprehending how to distinguish the characters in my novel  the characters in my life  the words in my life  the characters in others novels  the characters in others lives   life novel thing human object word  all morphing into each other like ducks in the distance or the wealthy and powerful in time or bodies in a steamroom or hate anywhere

i want to include a picture of the clothes  how theyre cast in perfect randomness on the carpet   if i only possessed more wisdom theyd be a sign to me  an oracle of images  a kabbalah unveiled  sartorial runes

this isnt a matter of ocd  ocd runs in the family surely and by family i mean the human family  we now know with as much certainty as we can muster in our fogged drizzlings that humanitys the one authentic manifestation of ocdity in the universe and we label those with ocd the ones we need to take that burden so the rest of us can feel were normal though normal doesnt exist and never has   the psychiatrist designating the patient ocd is in reality and simply a matter of one human with power and obsessed with power and with the power of designating others officially with ocd and this legitimized through institutionalized ocd professionalism  who after all and in what conflict of interest obtains the right to label and hierarchize brainscans?  translating this obsession through clinical weaponry to someone with less power to maintain the power imbalance and because the now designated ones obsessed with something other than power and less acceptable to those with power  say  the manifold sensuousness and methods of squeezing toothpaste onto or not onto ones toothbrush or the forming secret messages of ones cut toenails  these acts and orientations having nothing to do with power other than the energy of the act itself  like how to count ones clothes as one takes them off before a bath or before a bath one hopes to take but never does because the counting becomes in a sense the bath and replaces the bath and one just goes to bed

sadoo the vole nullity tutu

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

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

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

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

haha

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

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

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

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

sadoo the novel

vole love nullitalis

for all you aesthetically decimated unreaders

you dereaders atomized into the oblivions of nonart

nailed to the cross of capitalism but the pain offset

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

as sadoo despises the novel and so is in its despisableness

compelled toward seduction of it and sadoo is this compulsion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

patadoo doktor choo and the case of the missing missing

 cast

patadoo

doktor choo

the missing missing

secretly recording

the conversations of a roomba and dyson

at night when they think no ones listening

we arent humans not even whomyns but whonyms

we are the patadoo

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

where is doktor choo?

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

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

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

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

who is doktor choo?

neither patadoo nor doktor choo nor nononyms we ripple lewdly witches

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

sea enemies bob for those who talk like pirates

who couldnt kelp an axiom?

we are the patachoo

we train ourselves to train

they shall no longer punctuate the dude allusions

who is whonodoo?

whonodoos a dusty hyperglom of evil uncles

lets up the auntie and polkaroo her pangolin

my hyperglom bakes patapuns in the axiom

if bobs your auntie whos your nononym?

doktor poo does patawho on imagination thursdays

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

allude not to monster punctuations behest it slay thee

charm my whodoo to think my nyming not

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

hoofalot a choo too to geometry some gloamings

dokdoo choowho nyms the nonos nightly

dyson and roomba chuckling amongst themselves like prehistoric friends

mumbling in dusky absences of names that have escaped them

of phrases in the crevices of stairs

and clauses in the closets of carpets

ghost tutu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the methods and melioratings of turning things into ghosts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

these are some methods and melioratings of turning things into ghosts

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

in the twitchings between minutes and the rubble of hours