Days:
Secrecy Schisms
9/1Ø
July, 2ØII
9/1Ø
July, 2ØII
Once
upon a time humanity found itself plagued by lexical proliferation. The
critical area of confusion happened to be the schizoid split within the term
privacy. On the one hand, the meaning of the word got atomized through the
replication, resulting in seemingly akin, yet, in fact, resolutely distinct
concepts such as intimacy, individuality, identity. On the other hand, however,
the fragmentation in question lead to an overwhelming sense of universality,
contained in the interaction between and amongst the particularities at stake.
The universality that, for some reason, felt unbearable. Unbearable for the
counterintuitive clash between resemblance and differentiation.
Counterintuitive because intuition presumes coincidence, resonance, and/or convergence between logically discordant
phenomena. Logically discordant because of the counterintuitive, a priori laws
of logic. Counterintuitive because of the logic of negation of innate
categories. Negation because of the facticity of the constructivist character
of the mind. Constructivist because of the counterintuitive nature of the
perception and meaning of the likes of color red as a stimulation of neurons,
communication between transmitters and the rest of the nervous system,
climaxing in the signal reaching the target in the central part of it,
revealing to the remaining parts of the organism that the sensory input
translates into Я-AE-D.
By
the time this counterintuitive replication of sensory meaning reached the level
of alarming dubiosity, to say the least, the person by the name of DamendHer
was already two years old. Orphan by birth, the child spent infancy and early
childhood living six months in a boat on the river SiDzi, the other six in the
nest on the tree overshadowing the boat. Although at such a fragile age, the
child demonstrated an astonishing attunement to the theoretico-scientific flux,
whose vital issue was concerned with the question of privacy. Attesting to this
fact, frequently welcomed with natural resistance on behalf of those capable of
medico-logical reasoning, a letter written by the abovesaid was found exactly
three years after one was born and is addressed to the future adopter. The
following is a copy of the original archived at the Suprastellar Omnimuseico
Corporation & Co.
9/1Ø
July, 2ØII
Daer
Adoapteer:
Although
well adapted to the circumstances under which many a man would curse the day
when the absent parents threw one into this world, I am writing to,
nevertheless, express immeasurable excitement caused by even a slightest
thought of meeting one’s future caretaker. The delight one feels at a mere
nanoimaginometer of envisioning the moment when a new chapter of one’s life as
a born orphan will start, comes, believe-it-or-not, from one’s daily engaging
in conjuring up a comprehendible web out of outrageous threads of meaningsz.
Recent achievements in the hybrid form of thought, sampling the elements of
AeristoTalyan tradition with advanced D-AE-Rwinism-meeting-greenH-AE-Dism,
inspired one to create one’s own contribution to aestheticized politics of
medico-morality. What follows is an exposé intended to be delivered V U as a token of gratitude for the
anticipated generous act of YOURSZ.
In
sum, my groundbreaking discovery lies in a shamefully simple fact: the word
privacy has been interchangeably used with the word secrecy. And/or vice versa. This creates the basis for
understanding and experiencing safety as hiding. In turn, one learns to
appreciate individuality as an apex of identity in absentia. Consequently, it shapes one’s daily activities after
the detective story paradigm. As the phenomenon advances, the basic pattern is
being enriched by an addition of other transmedial elements such as thriller,
horror, psychodrama, romance gris, pixilated
picarescque narrative, crossed with confectional poetry with an air of
steroidized kitch’N’sink symphony. On the meta-level, this results in endless
replicas of the synonyms for the concept of privacy. On the object-level,
implications are numberless. However, the predominant one appears to be the increments on the life / death scale,
whose contradictory extremes alternate, while
engaging in a dynamic anthitetical, yet not antagonistic dialogue,
cønstituting a cøexistence invølving a mind-øffending simultaneity and its
bizarrely undeniable facticity. The
first cosmic truth born out of paradox: Everything starts with the second year
in one’s life.
From
the point of view of someone who has experienced the condition firsthand, it
can be described as the following lousy attempt will try to illustrate to a
curious mind willing to digest cold leftovers of somebody else’s
w-h-a-t-e-v-e-r-i-s-t-h-e-o-p-p-o-s-i-t-e-o-f-c-o-l-d lunch. Personally, one isn’t
sure if one’s gastrointestinal tract would process such input, but there are
digestive systems and digestive systems. Hence, for those who would compromise
digestion for the sake of uncompromising research politics, the meal is just
about to be served.
The troublesome interplay between life and
death in the age of lexical proliferation of meaning was experienced most
vividly on the inside as a rotation of flashes of a categorically different
character. On the outside, the appearances wouldn’t display the least
percentage of the drama from the space enclosed by the epithelium. At least not
for the lenses of a camera set by default to the XO-flash image mode. Other
lenses opened for the cyclonic luminescence stimuli. The non-dramatic
projection of the agonistic hurricane would appear as follows.
It’s
8 AM. I’m walking through a bright spring opening of a promising day. I see
streets whose light grey pavement whispers of the juicy concrete to kiss the
feet in a couple of months’ period when the sun will be closer to the earth and
directing its laser jet from a different angle. But right now I am walking
through the lightness of the warm spring air, anticipating the noon and, more
so, the evening hours of calm, comforting solitude. What the span between now
and the long awaited moment has in store for me is beyond my epistemology. What
was before this moment and the previous realization of what once was
anticipation is, by my standards, beyond living within the boundaries of good
taste. My noons are usually joyful because that’s when I take a walk in a
nearby park, not far from my office, for midday indulgence in gustation. That
keeps my spirit sufficiently charged to endure the long afternoon office hours.
After which I, should the weather permit, take another twenty-or-thirty odd
steps towards the sanctuary of the evening. With the discreet creak of the door
opening, I am losing myself to the seductive dimness of the space that I
pretend I don’t know to be my own apartment. And I play estranging the familiar
territory in order to enhance the solicitude necessary for the invasion of such
turf. Once I allow for the dialectical turn which shifts the direction and
agents in the conquest, i.e. once the active part on my behalf is complete, I
allow the hollowness of the secretive darkness to suck me into its velvety
spiral corridors. Downwards. All the way to the heart of the vacuum called the
bliss of an evening calm experienced in solitude.
On
the inside, however, the situation is radically different. My casual morning
walk through the freshness of the urbane ozone forest is a feast of denial.
What is being denied is a counterintuitivly non-carnal sensory experience. An
instance of such a blow to rationality is my walking towards a heap of flowers
that is acquiring the properties of an organism. This is being manifested in
the heap’s movements increasingly resembling breathing. With each inhalation
the petals covering this bizarre hill start vibrating to the particular
melodies imagined by each of them, respectively. This generates cacophony of
movements whose secondary effect is upPing
the pace of the alternation of inhales and exhales. When the vibration reaches
the level of a buzz, the final exhale leads to the transmutation of the floral
mountain into a pile of unidentifiable greasy particles whose contact between
and amongst each other causes a kinetic chain reaction resulting in the
creation of an image of a gigantic slippery wave elated above the surface of
the ocean whose fluctuation of the thick amalgam of feces and mucus evokes the ominous smile of the universe in
the interregnum before nothingness and the big bang. The titillations happen to
be the harbingers of the birth of civilization from the simmering brew of uncreated,
albeit existing, gases that lead to the moment of the historic rise of the
slimy, dripping billow.
My
enlightened lunch time is, on the inside, a jump into the bubbling cosmic
hemorrhage. As I am entering the park, a dollop of thickened scrap from a
laboratory specimen hits me with the intensity of the scorchingly sour smell
more than what it does to me visually / VC 450 flight to Bristol has been
delayed due to the severe weather conditions / I am shocked by the effect, as I
do not normally experience olfactory hallucinations during the lunch break. On
the inside of my forearm a cut opens. Looks like a freshly made scar…a result
of playing with a penknife…quite benign / Lufthansa 230 flight to Berlin has
been cancelled > passengers are kindly requested to be patient, as the
information about the next flight will be provided shortly > Can I help you? Yes, please…um…scrambled
squid--poached, not shaken; shrimp coated with pickled sour kraut-flavored mayonnaise…make it rare > The cut is mutating
from a smile-shaped curve into a laughter-deformed caricature of the portrait
of my great granddad hanging above my bed in the room that I always visit in a dream I have on Sundays /
All passengers from the BA 100 flight to Vienna are requested to alight their
interbypass carousels, as the vehicles to the airbus will be provided as soon
as the last call for RyanAir 22 is announced / Any dressing, seer? Yes,
please…garlic-ginger / Through the poisonous curtain of the caries infested
mouth cavity, I hear the pulse orchestrating the transformation of the bedrock
of the part of my body alienated from myself. As a result, I see the thin line
growing into a 12-lane gangrenous highway for chopper-carriers of electric cars
as an advanced way of the preservation of energy in the post-fossil-fuel era /
Anything to drink? / Smoking-free zones will be used as temporary shelters and
needle-sharing centers until the airport hospital reopens having been raided by
a group of passengers from the redirected CV 315 flight to Miami and its forced
landing in order to avoid a possible tragic outcome due to the air traffic
being momentarily inaccessible to land control / My forearm, which is not mine
any more, smells of sour kraut-flavored
pickles from the time when my grandma was a wee lassie > Yes, please…diet
coke. > As I am approaching the bench (my miniscule midday retreat) I get
attacked by a wild look of a withdrawal-crushed shadow of a junky, who says: My
flight has been being delayed for three consecutive days. I am out of my
fucking mind. I am a shadow dying of sickness-induced insomnia. My heart is
extinguished. My muscles dehydrated. My mind is out of sight. I am a
sickness-ridden shadow. Looking for a way to trick my prospects for health and
get as HI as a fucking KIte, as stoned as the raockey beach of my shitty
descending. As s/he says so, I feel the eruption coming from the core of my
skeleton, rockiteering upwards…towards what used to be the epithelium boundary
of one’s body. I can smell a 99 year garbage can stink approaching the surface
at maximum speed and strangely feel the transpositioning of the olfactory
pandemonium into a visually palpable head-shaped hemorrhage, puncturing the
bone, tearing the connective tissue, breaking the blood vessels, and screaming
at the world around itself as if it were the first audio second in the life of
an uberville >Seer, you dropped you wallet, seer…Thanks, angel. Help
yourself to a fiver and get some ice-cream for being such a sweetie > As I
hear myself pronounce the very last syllable of the last word of the
sentence/utterance, I feel sharp objects being attached to what was previously
my forearm…or so it felt…or so I identified it…or so I am able to describe
it…beyond the description was just the jaws devouring the monster being born
from my own tissue…and between the inhalation and the exhalation, dividing two
megabites, a gust of hardly identifiable verbal content, mixing with the odor
of a mayonnaise’s tropical fortnight, strikes me with a familiar voice: I am a fucking
shadow and I will eat you alive if you don’t get me to the sexed up
smoking-free zone as soon as fucking possible. Having heard the last word, I
realize that my lunch-break is over.
“The
flight has been cancelled*…*Diet coke.*…*Three consecutive days*…*Yes,
seer*…**Eater of my intergalactic black holes**Needle-sharing centers*…*Wild
flash from a stranger’s eye cavity*…*Your wallet, seer*…*Whipped cream*…*Yes,
seer…My feet are heavy, but my steps are light. 70% of my blood is being
engaged in the digestion of the uneasy lunch*break, but my mind is used to
running on the minimum of whatever percentage of the fluid. Я-AE-D. The usual
twenty-to thirty odd steps on my way back to the office are a space oddity in
their own right. But my sense of direction works proportionately to the level
of confusion. I always make a left on the first corner, past the shabby
tobacconist, but now I walk two more blocks and slip into the side alley after
I buy a gallon of expensive, super-filtered, ultrapure still water bottled in
the ancient Japanese sanctuary by monks of the xClencio order, known in
religious circles worldwide for its Spartan moral code, Athenian ecclesiastic
practices, and Roman understanding of urban planning (although the latter is
indisputably beyond the scope of the order’s activities) *I am a ghost of a
shadow*…*VC 34 flight to wherever*…*Three consecutive days*…*Yes, seer**Eater
of my intergalactic black holes**Your wallet, seer. I see the building where I
work. I pass the security desk without having my ID checked. Because they know
my name****Historian specializing in mummies****I take the elevator to the
eleventh floor to my office. Number V. I
walk past the coworkers, who came from their lunch break, not unlike myself. I
wonder what kind of olfactory cacophony they experienced while they were having
lunch. What did they have? A piece of pizza? Baked sweet potatoes? Garden
salad? Or ssuop? I prefer to think
they had tuna salad instead. They might have had it, as well*…*I need you to
get me to the temporary shelter/former smokinfree zone as soon as fuckin
possible*…*Shadow of the looted hospital*…*Now boarding*…*Yes, seer**Sup of my coup…Incestonaut**I sit at my desk. I have a computer on it. My
computer is incessantly connected to the internet. I am also part of the
intranet. And the Ethernet. I do 80% of my work on the computer. Online. My
colleagues do approximately the same. I create maps. I am a map-designer. I use
advanced technologies for the creation of maps. I create maps presenting the
interconnectivity between and amongst people who are interested in the
technologies of the preservation of the ancient Japanese water-bottling
ceremonies*…*I am in love with my own mind*…*Now boarding*…*I don’t do
prescription stuff*…*I am in love with a lamp-shaped face*…*I am a lamp dying
to score*…*Your flight, seer**Eater of my interneurotransmitter vacancies**I
draw maps of family trees of the trustees of the xClencio lamps & Co. In my
work I use sophisticated computerized protocols for the selection of the individuals
to be included in the maps. They are being chosen based on the degree, level,
and/or percentage of the proliferation of lexical meaning in their lives. And
depending on the synonym they use for the word privacy. I sometimes have to
visually indicate how such persons are positioned within the web. At times,
however, their presence and interconnectivity are suggested by the use of other
means. Once I wrote a poem that stood for the person who donated four old timer
airplanes from his/her private collection to the Japanese sanctuary on the
Mountain of Lamp Worshippers&There Disciples:
Con-commitant,
ye beloved.
GoodNerd,
cava!
I
am in love with my own mind—
I
am dying to get me a lamp.
I
am a lamp worshipper.
Eater
of my rash-ravaged skin.
My
dream kitch’n’person / Ye soul of my lamp.
As
I recall the poetic intervention created upon request of the trustee, I hear
the sound from the nearby belfry. And I know it is 6 PM. And time to go home.
There
is Unholy Trinity Sq. past the intersection of Floral Hill St. and
Half-Way-Between-Saturn&Moon’s Major Southern Crater St. that I always pass
at around 7 PM on my way back from work. Funny site—an urban planning perk par excellence. On its side facing the
east there is an arcade. Always in the shade. Not only does it leave the
passer-by irredeemably perplexed by the architectural site’s defying basic
astronomical facts and realities, but it is also an aesthetic well-spring of a
kind. Its semi-darkness creates sharp contrast with the rest of the square in the
background, intensifying the visual effect based on the conversation between
different wavelengths that at different speed stimulate one’s eye. The reason
why Я mention this is because every time I cut across that place, it never
fails to catch my whole sensory-perceptual apparatus. Soon after my voluntary
subjugation to such a bodily-architectural thrill, I turn into Floral Hill St.
for carbohydrate supplies—highlight of my night, crown of my day. I change
neither the riddim nor the pace of my walk from work. Rain or shine, my walk is
the same.
Thus
Я, without an exception, arrive to the place that I pretend I don’t know to be
my own apartment at around 8 PM. The contact between the key and the lock is a
recurring daily promise that finds its realization in the series of wonts of
mine. I open the door and before my hand reaches the switch, I take a quick
emotional shower of an anxiously pleasurable anticipation. My apartment, before
I completely enter it, welcomes me with a look of seaweed entangled around
one’s ankle. When I turn on the lights, it is a kiss of wet grass on a
scalding, humid day in July, before early birds-joggers steal scarce oxygen and
leave the unfortunate shortage of the gaseous mixture to welcome bohemian heavy
sleepers/late birds. When I am inside in all my entirety, I hear cutlery being
laid, as the table is being set for breakfast. Then I recognize the smell of
white coffee that chronologically contextualizes the sound nearly forty years
ago in the mornings when the sun meant sweet fruit, and rain freedom from
everything, but not for anything.
Two
easy steps to the right and voila you
see me in the barbarously regal shrine of my multiple-sensory/kaleidoscopically
spiritual ceremony. First, before I even wash my hands—let alone have a shower
proper—Я look at the mirror. Just to reset my senses from the previous
attunement to old-timer airplanes, to recast my cartographer mind of a slightly
different type, due to the altered set up, to defragment my brain and gather
the scattered mental particles excruciatingly remote from each other in the
vastness of the skull, having survived the flight–cancellation--meets—the-haunting-look-of-the-junky’s-shadow-refugee-from-the-purgatory--assault.
Immediately following that ritualistic resurrection is the second when one of
my feet presses with its toes the heel of the other feet, thereby half taking
off the shoe. In accord with the spirit that nourishes my private (derivatives
of the word privacy do count and are part of the culture of proliferation of
lexical meaning, but because this is an intimate moment, the discussion about a
special treatment of such linguistic complexity-inducing factors is beyond the
scope of the vocabulary currently available) oasis in the desert called time,
the other feet collaborates and, as soon as one pronounces, “Яedirect all your
cookies my way, and then, hold your biscuits, Tas/hkon!” the other
responds by throwing the shoe high in
the air, sometimes hitting the ceiling, sometimes not. I turn on my stereo to
have life-restoring vibrations accompany me on my way to the bathroom, where I
take the first steps towards regaining human dignity by sustaining smooth skin
on one’s elbows. I let the water fall over the scar on the inside of my
forearm. And then, after I return to the living room to sag into the luxurious
silent hug of the sofa, the human-presence-sensitive lamp is activated and a
luminescent jet projected from its face-s/haped s/hade finds
its focus on the page of the book I hold in my hands with the tenderness of a
parent touching a cheek of ye person-child beloved. The title is On How to Phunkie WriteRead (ØØØØ).
Neveя
have i imagined my life to turn into an inexplicable commitment to switching
from a sitting to a lying position; neveя thought that turning from one’s back
to one’s belly would become the foundation of one’s wellbeing; neveя would have
believed if somebody had said that the excuse for one’s being alive would have
been gluttonous indulgence in externally stimulated fabrication of one’s
jealousy. Hence, one spends nights in the shadow of long days, losing oneself
to the proliferation of fantasy like there is no tomorrow. Hard times demand
hard fancy. How one is to cope with such realities is a matter of personal
choices. Nearly each individual would have one’s own reason for choosing this
or that word to attach it to the experience selected in solitude, secretly.
Neither solid nor fluid are such decisions. Neither impassioned nor aloof.
Neither heedful nor indifferent. Just words, random choices picked from the sea
of lexical abundance, emptied of innateness, stripped of fixity, freed from
inevitability. Mine can be found in the answer to the riddle of the signifier
for the antonym of the expression****three dirty overcoats****Whoever thinks of
solving it…well, that’s a very bad sign.
Those
are my thoughts, sealing the nightly recovery from daily intoxications. The
rest is…
Daer
Adoptear, the rest is the reality of the shamefully simple truth, whose
blatantly disarming obviousness one is trying to verify conjuring all sorts of
complexities imaginable to a human kidney. Out of such lousy attempts, such as
the abovewritten account of one’s daily rootiness, is borne an escalating
confusion of an impressive spreading capability. Yet the unavoidable fact to be
faced by anyone worthy of his/her sugar is the first cosmic truth born out of
paradox: Everything starts with the second year in one’s life. And sees the
beginning of its fully fledged realization a year later with the release of
one’s sense of poetic vision. In hope that your empathic capacities exceed the
limitations of the emotion imprisoned in
the repressively oppressive consequences of verbal expression, I am,
nonetheless, addressing you with the plea to hear one’s testimony of living in
the age of the world economic power-charts being topped by the variables of mutable identities, of the sky-rocketing
sales of information smuggling, of the global economic elite-states losing
zillions of their ploughpersons to suicide, of ideologies refigured to the
level of comparison ad absurdum, of
ethics equated with legality, the latter further identified with the new rave,
of the market gris devising disguised
assisted suicide techniques as part of the elevated, human-centered war on the
red market, of tolerance, open-mindedness, and deabjecting politics being
conditioned by closeness of the heart—irrationality of the highest order, the
far cry…posterity… of the ancient master skill of sophist logic and rhetoric.
In hope that your intellectual ability can transcend one’s hopelessly foggy verbalization
of the train of thought per se bewildering
enough, one offers this modestly crafted emulation of perceptions filtered
through the sentimental, albeit not sentimentalist, grid of individually
(despite the blasphemy of all the
implied, hypothesized, assumed, and presumed repercussions, persecutions, and
prosecutions), albeit not individualistically, created ideas of all the
possible synonyms for the word privacy in the age of proliferation of lexical
meaning and the emergence of the groundbreaking discovery turning into the
cornerstone of the development of a three year old child’s poetic vision: the
word privacy has been interchangeably used with the word secrecy--and/or vice versa—thus creating the basis for
understanding and experiencing safety as hiding. In turn, one learns to
appreciate individuality as an apex of identity in absentia. In such world beauty is being shifted from the realm
of aesthetics to that of face lifting. The pen is, analogously, being replaced
by a surgical knife. Kenosis is
confused with liposuction. Oat fields with silicon valleys. Where the size of
one’s love muscle corresponding to one’s tubularo-uteral dimensions attests to
living in a degendered culture. In which chromosomic reconfiguration is a matter of pixelated pigmentation as the
ultimate proof of the victory of progress and the power of constructivism. In
which the results of scientific research are subject to adjustments depending
on the stage of one’s tenure-trial years or other conditioning factors within
the upward academic mobility dynamics, the results of medical laboratory tests
go under the umbrella title: Wassup! Where languages are being used in ways
that betray their origin, i.e. supposed
means of communication, thus leading towards better understanding
between and amongst humans. The culture from which this letter is being written
is that of an anxiety-infested kingdom of the complex entertainment
industry—the world of flashy white teeth displayed behind the uninterrupted
smile, leaving little-tø-nø røøm for laughter. Because one fears the
consequences of exposing the architectonic fragility to even a slightly-more-energetic-than-ye-average-pneumatic-kinetic.
For
that reason, in solicitude ruminating about the destiny of one’s own house, one
is sending this letter to the focus of one’s joyous anticipations. In hope that
at least 20% of the scribblings will be met with reasonable empathy (although
any percentage will alleviate one’s current dis-quiet) one continues virtually
exploring the possibilities of advanced communication. In true aspiration of
some response, I am closing these broodings with an admiration for the generous
future act of yore--dapoltri.
iyoursz!
arc/hear
I frequently
phantasmagorize of being a writer. On one of such occasions, I wrote a letter
to my imaginary reader. The letter is of the approximately following content:
DaerRietdaer:
I sometimes
phantasmogorize of conversing with thou. Such situational somnambulism is to me
invaluable inspiration. What it is for thou I have no knowledge of. But one
thing I do know. That thing is that I am dying to ask thou some questions. To
them thou will give suitable answers that will be revealed to thou shortly. One
of the themes that interests me as a topic of our communication is the milieu
foYr ye sustainability of a good concept. With that thematic framework in mind,
we will open ye conversation. Proceed we will as we please, i.e. as the
dialogical flow leads us.
Youяsz Fatefully,
XX
Act
One
Characters
A&B are in the lounge of the hotel Waxing Loose. It’s late afternoon in
June. Sunshine is playing with the surfaces of the objects present. Despite the
number of guests in the hotel, it is quiet. Pleasant. The voice recorder is on.
The voices are too.
A:
Please define for me your understanding of reading in the age of deterministic
inauthenticity.
B:
All historicality is always already historicity. And so is history.
A:
What, in your opinion, is more historical than temporary spaceship?
B:
TemporiVM absentio est declenciossum mea faVoUrite.
A:
If that is your way to emphasize a(n) historical connection between fructose
and ferry, I think I can extrapolate the linguistic, i.e. etymological aspect
from your proposition. That said, can we go on to consider possible
interpretations of the word exhaustion.
B:
Escape is a good concept if one is to speak about hierarchy, imposition,
power-relations, and the phenomena of their ilk.
A:
Let’s then imagine a writer’s mind during the performative act of creation.
B:
To say that one cannot do this or that thing only means that such a capability
existed in the past.
A:
What is then your perception of the present?
B:
A dark cloud of the future primordial defines authentic determinism as the
antebellum anxiety overshadowed by postdiluvian crisis of affect.
A:
Do you anticipate a decrease in a-XO-mie in the years following the class
divided Globe?
B:
To me--and everybody else, regardless of the extent of an individual’s awareness
of the fact-- skin is as deep as
genitals, unlike—and, indeed, despite the overwhelming popularity of—fiendship.
A:
Do you hold it to be the ground for conceptualizing life as an anagram of
“death”?
B:
There is no such thing as bad vision. If one cannot see well, it is then spekky
sight.
The characters are
brooding in the invasive silence. Somewhere above their thoughts, an echo of
their conversation is drifting below the ceiling: me got an obligation, given to me through the performative act of
birth; it is called List—foYr—Live. It is partly a choice, partly an imposition. That’s why it’s sometimes an
ocean of happiness, at times a chasm of sadness. That’s why one chooses
it—because one can only choose between whatever and nothingness.
[2nd AVgust, 20XX]
DaerReatdeir,
I found myself lost
when I finally realized that it takes endless alternations of day and night to
acknowledge that when I’d met you, I realized that the breath of my reader mind
got irreversibly colored by the depth of your words.
You told me something.
And I didn’t know it was you. Until I hear how your words reverberated. Then I
told you who I was. Later, you said, Thanks. I didn’t know you’d said that. But
I said, Thanks, nevertheless. Because nobody else could say that. Because
nobody would hear.
Then you wrote…a book
or something. I read it. Because there is nothing else I can read. Because
nobody else can read it. Then I learned how to write while I was walking. Still
know how to do it. Because there is no other way to, phunkie, read.
Youяsz Fatefully,
XX
Days
Off Refforgotten Mind--Appendix F / 360 (a.k.a. Daplotri)
Wassup!
Let’s
say NO to the concept of sign. How’s that for starters? Stories can be
told in languages known to man. But to call one this or that, one must be able
to imagine a tale told in the words not discovered yet. Between such words
there is nothing. Thus, undiscovered words are pending names—both being
involved in an alternating, at points bifurcating, act of signifying the
fluctuating signified, thereby proliferating abundance of abstraction.
It’s
just to say that partly as a choice, in part as an imposition, one gets accustomed
to double-role playing. In the age of deterministic inauthenticity, it only
means that riddle-laden resources of recurrent potentialities for situational
somnambulism at certain points get exhausted. One then, instead of shifting
towards the untrodden territories in search for raw materials, freezes in the
emptiness of temporary spaceship. With the awareness of the impossibilities of
the resources hitherto available, one understands that the word impossibility
acquires a different meaning (risk taken for all the blasphemy extracted from
this hate speech), emerging from such a resourceless context. In the upcoming
reprint of On How To Phunkie WriteRead (øøøø),
it (the newly acquired meaning, i.e.—despite its /the meaning’s, i.e., and,
perhaps, by extension, the book’s, as well/ radical political incorrectness)
will appear as a dictionary entry of the approximately following content:
impossibility
(n.) – not that what is not possible, but what no more
exists as a past resource of recurrence; what is to be sought in what has not
occurred yet, but might one day become unrecognizable and, daerfoYr,
unrecurrable;
impossibilize
(v.) – to make not impossible but freed from the potential
past repetitions and for freezing in order to see; partly an act of will, in
part surrendering to the uncontestable circumstances imposed by Nature on one’s
idea of measuring Time; to render shared / discoursizable / exposed among
different subjects what has not occurred yet, but is seen through the lenses of
the question:
Let’s imagine an answer
that focuses on the aspect of the question discoursizing time. Specifically, to
say that time is by nature namable is to define it as the potentiality for
becoming the subject-matter of linguistic games known to man. It also
means that linguistic games known to man are but series of discontinuous
continuality consisting of points
between which there is nothing. Those nothingy gaps—houses of void-- are
unrealizable recurrent potentialities, i.e. spots of recurrent possibilities
repeated, had the resources not run sere. To say that time is by nature namable
is to assume the character of time as a signified in constant becoming.
Consequently, it is also to attribute to it the potential foYr being a
signifier in the next cycle of signifying alternations. Nature, in turn, becomes an implodable
intersection of the time axes. The weakness manifested in fluctuation is, in
fact, an actualization of (a) namability of both “nature” and “time” and (b)
realizibility of exhausted impossibilities.
It’s
to see double-role playing as germane to a waondering search for spekkie sight.
To admit an inability to deny the arising angle, from which it is possible to
see what cannot be. Recurrent potentialities acquire an identity of the
vanishing point. Where melt the memories of the second reforgotten to itself to
be a 1/60th of a minute that, in turn, is reforgetful of its (own)
being a 1/60th of an hour. A reforgotten reminiscence of the stormy
night when one was conceived. On a lake. Or-f/ph-an by the performative act of
birth. Ignorant by the performative birth of an act. Ignoble by natural unmeasurability of time and spaceship
between life and death at the moment of one’s coming to this or that world. By
the absence of words to name such recklessness. Of such unforeseeability of
what one day will become an unrecognizable, unrepeatable, immobilized
potential. What will one day refuse to be a memory of the time ahead in the age
of deterministic inauthenticity. Discovering life in racing nanoseconds.
Blissful weakness. Of having the mind conquered by ye kitch’n’person. In
understanding one’s (own) being to be
forever lost in ye eye of the cyclone.
Days
Off Refforgotten Mind—Apendix aT
Subject-Matter: Do you
have the time?
RXrRXr:
All historicity is always already signification of the sight spec/kie. To say
that such vision requires a discontinuous continuity of spots of words between
whom there is nothing is to be a grain of sand on a rocky beach…splinters on
stones’ surfaces reflect sunshine, breaking ye spectrum into an overflow of an
abstract rainbow…translucency of crystals…persistence of childhood memories in
evaporation of waterless haze…spWriteReading.
Subject-Matter:
Do you read-write while you are write-reading?
RXrRXr:
All walking is always already nothing but the shade of mauve slurping a dollop
of turquoise to drip down a washed away crimson background against the front of
rich blue mixed with emerald-yellowish. Ye river of nocturnal beige rolling
soft breezy kisses from a bank / through invisible branches / silent whispers
of ye leaves.
Subject-Matter:
Do you measure thy name?
RXrRXr:
The precision of a linguistic expression is the power in its own right. To be
out of seasons…a nest for ye rain’s afterhours…an ear for the smell of a(n)
haphazard stroll…Through a meadow…alleys dividing divine bushes in ye rose
garden…Dividing ye smell from ye rest of
the world…Eyes for the rest of the world…In hope for an odor-leakage. In.
Subject-Matter:
Do you skin recurrable potentialities?
RXrRXr
: Neither repetition. / Nor now / Rather all the posthumous prenativity sucked
into the moment of a flashy buzz from the iris of another body’s eye / partly a
warning / partly an invitation / The totality of its fragmentary
inarticulateness / hypnotizing sedateness of ye purple hug / at the crack of
dawn / and all the stories told in the language of the awkward / shy phrases /
Tales reluctant to be told / emptied ecstacies / vapid gush of blood / lazy
eyelids / cold nostrils / Thinning skin
/ hurting naked tissue / pulsating / like ye heart of a dog ready for the red
market everything-must-go-sale / To save a life of a dying stylist / who
doesn’t know who a dog is / or ye heart / or ye stigmatized words / Censored
emotions / Castrated limbs / _up_.
Subject-Matter:
Does scientific objectivity exist independently of discourse?
RXrRXr:
Unquestionably so. Because when a monkey changes into a donkey— there is no
word that can prevent such transformation. One might argue that it has nothing
to do with labeling it either scientific or objectivity, but that’s just human
mind speaking desperately in the misery of its limited comprehension and *
curvy pathways inside the skull being filled with luminous nectar * defrosted
crystal * nectar flow * carving a microriverbed as it is gently pushing its way
forward* fresh water caring seaweed * languid stream * cooling warmth of ye
nastily obedient waves.
Subject-Matter:
Does art belong in discourse?
RXrRXr
: Irrefutably so. If it weren’t for discourse, many a nest-ms-tr-ess-me-DJ pieces would be lost. Wouldn’t have been
created to start with. It is the sine-qua-non-ness
of discourse that conditions the existence of art…creation arises from ye words
not discovered yet * events not actualized yet * because there is no stuff from
the past to be replicated * there is no vacuity empty enough to preclude the
implosion in the intersection of time axes***cosmic/con/junction.
Subject-Matter:
Does discourse inspire nature?
RXrRXr:
Irrebuttably so. The impulse coming from the outside infuses into discourse
unimaginable potentiality for conditioning all aspects of our culturally
constructed good selves. More than in any other case it is embodied in the abovesaid transphasmagorical
monkey-donkey turn (or, at least, it is by far more clearly inarticulate in
that than in any other phenomenon of a similar character)…monkey’s tongue has
the shape of a fish / it penetrates donkey’s ear / disappears in the labyrinth
of inner ear / becomes donkey’s liver-kidney highway 55 / pumps into donkey’s
vocal cords excessive quantities of bile / to moisturize the throat / through which the fish transfigured / into
a pulsating larynx / is readies to be launched right to the center of ye heart
of ye donkey*after it has swapped one’s existential identity with ye monkey.
Subject-Matter:
Does philosophy make one think?
RXrRXr:
Like fuck it does! think of it as a
trigger to one’s cognitive apparatus that is expanding the more it is
stimulated by contentio philosofico. Contemplatore—conjugated whatever—est
one’s blюda neobiknovenaя, innit! Kon/es/h/xo…That said, think about the
following utterance as the axiom of thinking (for circularity, you know what…):
Habenzi-not-enough-whatno…to do / be
done.
Walking along unknown
streets*nordico-mediterranean architecture*seagulls flying over the sidewalks
covered in snow*startling blue sky neverethelss*hidden passage…narrow alley…up
the hill…thin buildings like shadows of the trees by the moonlight spilt over
the sea…rising tall…disappearing in the
fog descending, embracing the fragile walls*climbing further…slow
steps…heavy movements…up the hill…throbbing the foggy barricade…getting hit by
the sight*a valley full of dogs, running, jumping, dangling sloppy ears, warm
hair, funny pawns, short, deep breaths, sucking from the combustion chamber all
the oxygen that can be created and consumed*all the oxygen imaginable to ye
human kidney*never tired of playing*
June 26-7, VV
Feeling
on one’s own skin the smell of the nest of the bird singing the symphony
composed by a three year old child, HerDamend lets the long inhaled gaseous
concoction glide down the respiratory labyrinth. Looking at the shadow of the
tree as if it were colors on the canvas layered by a brush held by a hand of
somebody whose voice was formed by an empty page after the inscriptions
previously left for one to encounter were deleted through a meditation
populated by the echoes of the soil airing molten metal.
Hearing
one’s own thoughts in the form of a pen shyly approaching the cleared surface
of the paper, HerDamend is trying to talk as if it were greetings exchanged
between the valley tired after a long day of being part of the hallway to the
grove and the thirstily awaited kiss of the sky, laying its crimson lips on the
heat-drained hills. Recognizes one’s own reasoning in the awakening memories of
the words from the letters buried in the background music of one’s mind:
[ ]
Daer
Countrymean,
I
was born in the land of the folks whom I saw as kinship and strangers, comrades
and an indifferent crowd, benevolent and hostile, neighbors and passers by,
guardians of the cradle and scatter-brained wanderers, benign jokers and
miserable parasites, generous givers and narrow-minded cripples, unconditioning
providers and envious backbiters, warm advisers and unscrupulous
upward-social-climbers, kings of laughter and emperors of solemnity, masters of
the healing embrace and spiteful tormentors, torchbearers for the soul-saving
wisdom and the experts in heart massacring, a fascinating source of uniqueness
and blank back-stabbers, endlessly amusing and lame to the core, elated
worshippers of life joy and embittered cynics of the lowest order,
prototypically passionate and confusingly reserved.
I left that land to
inhabit another one. Where a different language is spoken. That I understood to
be part of listening to my inherent urge for the preservation of meaning: it is
reasonable to accept a possibility to be misunderstood in an alien linguistic
environment. There I met a person called HerDamend, who,
without knowing it, taught me how to read-write. I learned that in order to write-read,
one needs to learn how to accept
life’s inevitabilities. A major one being: One must accept a possibility that
one’s favorite reader is a painfully reluctant yo-bastardness. The other one
being: One must accept a possibility that there will be extended periods of
depravation of communicating with one’s best talker ever. And another: One must
accept a possibility that one’s skin, no matter how strong the smell of a
bird’s nest may be, will be temporarily transformed into a waiting room until
the embrace of the claret sundown--a china-shop-accident-move of ye beloved
nerd person, ehem—breaks the spell of the terrible summer. One more: One must
accept a possibility that one’s passion is sentenced to a life of an engine fueling
nothingness between us.
All
the vanity aside, one engages in excelling in all the skills of acceptance.
Defying one’s own egotistic demons, one assumes that life is full of inexplicably
unavoidable certainties. It is one’s right to live that enables mastering
accepting them. Mastering accepting the rights. The right. To live. To not to
accept not to have the voice to listen V.
Yoursz
HerDamend
[i]
South Sea Port, NYC. Summer 2011.
[ii]
Soho, NYC. Summer, 2011.
[iii]
Renegades, Williamsburg, NYC. June, 2011.
[iv]
Sugarland, Williamsburg, NYC, June 2011.
[v]
After the bang, South Sea Port. NYC, Summer, 2011.
[vi]
Sugar Hill. NYC, April, 2011.
[vii]
London Wall. London, July, 2009.
[viii]
Off Fifth Ave (a). NYC, Summer, 2011.
[ix]
Off Fifth Ave (b). NYC, Summer, 2011.
[x]
Funkie sky. NYC, Summer, 2011.
[xi]
Do you have the time? NYC, Summer, 2011.
[xii]
Directions. NYC, Summer, 2011.
[xiii]
Psycho-rain. NYC, 20111.
[xiv]
Bryant Park. NYC, Summer 2011.
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