Yo!
At the conference titled Haters
Against Superficial Perception Of Death[1]
(University Off O’Heigh, on the first Friday of the month of April 4004, under
the auspices Off Translucent Association) the presenters, commentators,
inquirers, curious passers-by, docile acolytes, fervent opponents, sage
advisers, intoxicating skeptics, soul-crushing cynics, suspicious
episteme-hunters, gullible followers, robotic
listeners, gluttonous collaborators, and zomboid elocutionists are
united in kicking the underbelly of perception of death as the (fore)shadow of the kingdom of beyondness. The gathering aims to
trigger tectonic shifts in the undercurrents of the consensus about life as a transitory
stage in universal whateverness. On this gloomy Fday afternoon, when most of
the denizens are rushing towards their suburban homes, wrapped in woolen shawls
to protect themselves from the attack of the raging hostile wind, an unlikely
crew of different affinities are assembled at 45 Half-Floral Ave. The
unquenchable remixing drive brings them at Celestial Academy to for a zillionth
time share, confront, offend, embrace, reject and/or accept each other’s opinions.
A special treat for the listeners and the dedicated crew of WELD/Program.
Awm. straight from the hearth off the heated
debate. Cheers!
: Ladies’n’Gentlemen,
welcome to the celebration of the 30th anniversary of the
inauguration of the seminal idea that opened up a brand new universe of
exploring the notions of life and death in the context of bodiless
somnambulism. To my petrol delight, today we will have the chance to hear
numberless thoughts about the subject matter in question. It is a great pleasure
and immeasurable honor to introduce to the audience Professor Jesjerbo
Einzeshoolenolbagthen, a senior lecturer in quantum economics of spaceship
trade. To his or her right is seated Kronaverous Dearkxnh, postconsensual
journalist and a political activist for early retirement. Further to the right
is Sonnunta Arcada!, a reader in cerebratory mechanics of the printed world at
the University of Guess What. To his or her right is Paneloopy Harckoffianova
Xille, The University of Refined Arts graduate, public intellectual,
investigating the propulsiveness and stretchability of transindividualism. With
no further ado, join me in welcoming our guests – give it up for the hopefully
fruitful outcome of today’s gathering.
(Clap. Clap. Clap.)
:Thank
you. There is no reason to delay the first presentation: ladies’N’gentlemen,
Professor Einzeshoolenolbagthen!
: Wassup! Lemmie see
what we have here…a bunch of bloody bastards, eh? Well, well, well…what an
inspiration for a dirty cynical mind…thanks, thanks everyone…What can I say? My
early encounters with the notion of death as a prolegomenon to a kingdom of
whatever was a decisive signal to my brain to set itself in the ongoing alarm
mode. Why, you may ask…The answer is pretty straightforward, as I am not accustomed
to postponing anything that can be done any time. Hence, my answer is because I
recognized in it traces of a hallucinogenic attempt to establish once and for
all the belief in vapidousness of transience as such. Having realized in it a
far cry of what I found to be simply an abhorring recapitalization of the then
already overthrown spaceship trade dogma, I felt a pang probing my chest with
the intensity of the speed of light fertilized by the infinity of velocity. So,
I instantly held my breath, exhaled deeply, and listened to the lexical
selection packaged in phonological opulence, stunningly seductive, yet
insufficiently deceptive for a veteran skeptic like your humble orator. That
moment marked in my life the beginning of the struggle that I intend to end
when death itself confirms my suspicions. Here’s to that!
(Uaploading.)
:
Thank you, Doctor Einzeshoolenolbagthen. I suggest we hear the next presenter
before the beehive of thoughts spurred by Professor’s immersive account of his
or her experience shatters the spirit of communal cohesion. To that end,
Kronaverous Dearkxnh–the floor is yours!
: Hey, thanks! What an
afternoon, eh? Never thought I’d meet so many mind-blowing idea-generators at
one place! Huh! Where to start? How to begin? When nothing that can be said
would be welcomed with an emphatic flame…When all one could ever conjure is his
or her own vision of heaven and / or hell, respectively, dependent on that very
person’s nutrition and digestion…What a world has been given to us to inhabit?
What a universe to dream of flying across…What a grandiosity of
unhistoricizable strokes telling us where the answers cannot be found…what a
glory of living in the agony of uncertainty, indecision, unrevealed paths
leading who-knows-whatever…what a privilege to be called a human being (if the
term itself, along with the signified, has not been completely swept from the debate) here and
now, regardless of where and when it is. Forever inspired by this blood-sucking
realization about one’s spatio-temporal conditionality, I decided to commit my
life (even if it’s just an appendix to the great book of antibiotics) to saying
yes-I-mean-no-well-eh-oblige-me-not-I-dunno…to a constant influx of an ever
increasing amount of ye stubble instability of death.
(Clap. Clap. Clap.)
:Thank
you! Thank you, indeed! Isn’t the unstoppable train of thought just that!
Before this stream of ideas drag us from concentrating on the gregarious aspect
of today’s event, let’s keep our minds firmly focused on the direction from which
the next speech bravado is coming from – right from the head and mouth of Sonnunta Arcada!
:Not
accustomed to live encounters with the producers and owners of ideas, I find my
own position somewhat unnatural. This is only to beg in advance your forgiveness
for the possible mishaps, flaws, and distortions in my speech. What makes this
situation even more peculiar is that it seems to be the very tail of the body
that the snake’s gob is biting. Let me be more precise and say that just
because I became irreversibly disillusioned with regard to the possibilities
and elusiveness of a live verbal exchange, I redirected my activities towards
the printed world and the enchantments of its stubbility. The exegesis of my
professional orientation and expertise is archeologically leading to the moment
when the allegedly scientifically justifiable truth about the undoubtedly empirical phenomena such as
life and death (which /” “/ turned out to be a mere projection of the
speaker’s predecessor’s metaphysical aimless wandering) was “revealed” to me. I
was shocked, to say the least. To be more generous in specifying the experience
it, actually, was, I have to acknowledge another hardly comprehendible fact: my
mind was spinning down a dazzling whirlpool of a hot-cold rollercoaster…Hwere
to go, what to think, whom to ask, to whom to confess, with whom to share…was
beyond my command…So, I opened a book…to find consolation …and guess what I
found! The same idea that blew away the ground under my feet just minutes prior
to that. But then, what’s even more shocking is that this time I felt it spoke
differently to me. Then I decided to spend the rest of my life--regardless of
how it stands in opposition to death—to the study of the world of print. Hence,
all the flawed aspects of my today’s speech. Thank you!
(Uaploading.)
:No,
thank YOU! What a paradoxical way to direct one’s life! (Anyone care to
share cognizance abt different paths?) May our attention not be dispersed in a
factional fashion. Rather, let’s remain firmly nailed to the train of word of
the forthcoming misterlady speaker -- Paneloopy Harckoffianova Xille!
:
Pleasure to see all the familiar faces, as well as those of complete strangers!
Ha! Whatapackofmotherphunkiewolvesyouare, ARE you not, huh? I have every wish
to open today’s presentation with expressing my measureless joy caused by the
flashes and sparkles in your eyes so alive. My idea of the prospects for
increasing the strechtability of one’s
own being was originally inspired by my mother’s incidental delivery of an
auxiliary lesson in literary theory. Specifically, on one occasion when she was
lulling me with an astonishingly
sedating fairy tale told in a velvety voiceover alternating between a hysteric soprano and a sinuous alto. Another piece of
random literary knowledge and…well, skill…what else…happened when my ol’ man
sent to my eye a look of 1000 swords and
zillions of elfin smiles telling me to take and read the book he presented me
with earlier. Later, I realized that in his pulsating eyeball was hidden the
quiet sanctuary which I’dl be revisiting as long as I live for a recharge of
the battery in my pupil. The core of the lesson was the revelatory clue for interpreting a dream
of a factory worker in the key of continental politics of analysis and
turntablist poetics in tune with the cosmic walk of the silent word. Having
learned what readwriting—literature--is, I set out on a journey called life by
all whose imagination fails to respond to the challenge to transcend that
shamefully narrow definition. I was like them perhaps. Before the earthquake
that forever restructured my cognition based on a definition’s capacity for
strecthability. Once I started accumulating the necessary skills for the
development of my life-defining strategies, I started hearing my mother’s voice
coated in the shades superseding my explanatory faculties. Thus I started
exploring the possibilities to transcend my individuality by becoming a
transgressive tribal transindividual. I purchased special robes symbolizing my decision to live forever
deluded by the idea that I am alive.
(Clap. Clap. Clap.)
:
Thanks all the presenters for sharing their respective illusions, anxieties,
comforts, aspirations, desires, thoughts, passions, and/or anticipations.
Having said that, we’ll open the discussion and start with the A/Q session.
Yes, I can see some hands over there…Lady-gentleman in the back has priority,
for s/he is among the minority who actually paid the $10 admission. We’re all
ears…
(Uaploading.)
:
As an inconsolable victim of the collapse of biologically inspired financial
determinism, I am, to put it very mildly, unsettled by the words coming from
the confession shared by Ms. Xille. What strikes me in particular is his or her
uncritical, unquestioning acceptance of intuitive critical thinking and involuntary
educational practices. As a single child, I too did receive a lesson in
psychodynamic of remixing on more than one occasion while my carers were
desperately, unsuccessfully so, trying to pacify my prenatal frustration
manifested in the nonverbal quest for the financial essence of existence.
However, I resisted it uncompromisingly, unconsciously knowing that the
revelation was only to come once I would be given a privilege of enrolling in
an actual educational institution and being epistemologically baptized by
experts. Hence,,, my question is: Hwat the phunk does voice have to do with motherphunkie
bunch of elated teleological stubbilities that the ingenuity of expertise transforms
into whadeva?
(Clap.
Clap. Clap.)
:
I am most grateful for this strange encounter with the question throbbing the
stretchy boundaries of transindividualism. First, I would give the reason for
my gratefulness. It, on the one hand, pierces the tissue of the lofty body of
definition per se. These metaphorical
injuries are, on the other hand, the very manifestation…proof, so to speak…of
the beauty of living as a transgressive tribal transindividual. Further, it
vivaciously stabilizes the uncertainty of living through the aura of delusion as
a selfconsuming counterpoint. In other words, that instantiates the presumable
impossibility of a physical impact on metaphysical phenomena, outplaying
transcendence as such. And I take hearing this to be the most gratifying of
tensions that either a question like yours, or, a given life situation–regardless
of the extent of postmonsterity–can present a human being with (A pint on me
after the panel in the pub across the street, cool?)
(Uaploading.)
: On November 6th, 20X, I
went to the river to drown myself. I walked towards the shore and felt the
misty air dampening the hairs on the inside of my nostrils. Humidity always
smells of fall. Feels like yellowish leaves after the rain, emanating etheric
waves into the bubblesque surrounding. The softness of the materialized
scentless olfactory sensation evokes the stillness of rainy Saturday mornings
in a working class quarter, in an apartment with the windows facing factory
chimneys–the only joyful site in the morosely stern landscape. And that view
from the bed on such drenched mornings was an equivalent for the long, foggy
afternoons that suffocated the soul with the most startling of blankets. As I
entered the water, I felt as if my awareness of the body robbed of a meaning
was conquering my heart. With each inch of my skin subjugating to the powers of
the aquavasion, I sensed the vurtuality of the new meaning
expanding…merging with the tidal touch and presenting it with a new insight
into the notion of spatial coordination. And I stopped when the waterline
marked the boundary around my thigh, dividing it into two incommensurable
zones. And that line told me about a mindless, devastating, arduous, merciless
brutality of living unaware of the meaning of one’s own body.
:Thanks
for the exchange. Time to proceed with questions…Gentlemanlady in the front
row…
:
Wassup! Nothing can be more pleasurably challenging than asking me to share
details of that conversion. First, one needs to be phunkie unborn into a seeker
for whateverness in the kingdom of diachronically unhistoricizable space.
Secondly, one MUST phunkie admit being gifted with the insurmountable amount of
suspicion. This MUST be excelled in every phunkie communicational context that
comes to hand. It is most elegantly done in three easy steps: (1) Find a
random, ephemeral string of words written on the bank of the river; (2) Call
them a bird; (3) Proclaim their/its originating from and residing in your
romanticized dream of dysfunctional family
relations…and VØILAE–from a potential, weak cynic, one is converted into a born
skeptic–never to enter the kingdom of reverence again! Cheers Madam Charie in
re-tro-spect!
: On November 9th, 20=, I
realized that from being ostracized (point A) to being exiled (point B), may appear
as a static trajectory. If you have a sense that such a journey does not
coincide with the definition of kinetic,
you may want to (a) Rethink your trip, or, (b) Redefine the word. If you opt
for (a), that can either imply checking the flexibility of your muscles, or, a
suspicious approach towards the very road. If your choice is (b), however, the
consequences are more than obvious. Now, checking the flexibility might as well
entail testing the stretchability of the muscles, whereas introducing a
suspicious attitude towards the road itself can require physical engagement,
should there be any need for its readjustment. By contrast, although the
obviousness of the consequences resulting from the (b) option could be
disputable, that fact is not worth considering for a simple reason: the very
obviousness. As the most controversial among the abovementioned issues, special
attention will be paid to it. A kind of blindness as it may be called, refuting
the argument against obviousness is linguistically justifiable because the
latter is one of the lesser rhetoric strategy and even a more morbid logical
maneuver than the former. By the same token, although the act of refuting
features a bearing pertinent to ad
hominem argumentation, its application is, nevertheless, valid, as it
confirms the belief in the power of non-principal parts of speech in the Latin
language. Alas, that linguistic agency, a.k.a. Lace’n’Trism, features severe
symptoms of an auto-asphyxiating bias. However, any objection of that kind
signals unforgivable ignorance about the significance of lingua franca. As such, the linguistic common ground is frequently
debated from the perspective of grounding-biased opponents. Needless to say,
these opinions decisively ignore their own position.
To
be aware of such ignoration counteracts the very stance. Thus, the awareness is
ruled out as a possibility. Once the magnificence of even-handedness has
manifested itself in the full glory of the broadness of perspectives, the
consideration can proceed to the next stage, being: What can one do with a
definition in order to change it? Or, the word for that matter.
:Cheers
for transferring mutual thankfulness onto the all present and absent alike. Why
don’t we take the next question from the floor…
:ALrajt
everyone! Coming from impoverished lower middle class background, I learned my
lesson as I was going from one metonymical caveat to another. The most
revelatory insight to me was that about sexual inscriptions on the food we
daily devour not asked if we feel like it at all. Thus, I tend to read into
spurting members and dripping cunts the foreshadowing of a loaf of apples
bought to fruition with the erasure of my vision of the lionized past from the
minds of the protagonist of the oneiric experience I might will have had. In
all honesty, I am as modest as phunk! Gluck, gluck, gluck–ih am. In my teens
all the streets of even the most deserted of towns were populated, inhabited,
and dwelt by people. On summer nights, I would stroll along la boulevard and melt into the
lusciously sweating concrete. I used to adore the filthy city. As I allowed the
metaphorical magma to conquer my pores, I was automatically infused with
nutrients necessary for the growth of me – baby! That I took to be the
compensation for the birth-given class status, now forever lost to the endless
wandering and search for more of that liquid rushing into the simile of my
body. Like phunk!
:Hwatss yo question?
:As a specialist in question-free
culture, I take the liberty not to respond to the previous commentator. Given
the metamorphosis from a personified dactyl to a hyperbole of persona, my everincreasing pleasure was being borne by a
logically salient belief in simultaneous amplification of impatience as the
most effective life strategy, refuting all the hypotheses about the possibility
of the synonymity of value-free, disinterested, objective, unbiased, valueless, invaluable…inutilitable. This made of me an unshakable acolyte of
the evasive opposition between the dichotomies such as life and death.
: On November 15th, 20=, I
decided that, despite my favourite pastttime being humming, I find it
startlingly exciting to sometimes also bruzz. The reason for this passion of
mine is that it is less easily detectable. The nature of the sound hides in the
friction produced by the palate and the tonsils via the vibration of the short
audio channel between them. What is particularly seductive about it is the way
frequency is spread throughout the oral cavity, striking with the most specific
of delights the teeth, parroting big tubes of the organ, spilling the sound
from the “pulpit” onto the “nave.” Now despite this enchantment, I don’t spend
too much time submitting to the spellbinding charm of the titillations in my
nostrils, further encircling my eyeballs, and making my frontal lobe…well—hum.
From there, I feel a sensationally mild wave of numbness invading the spots on
my skull from where hair jumps out of the darkness and grids the air around
itself. Although inanimate in a way, each of these attached ornaments of the
human body encapsulates the energy of the impulse from the source. Whether they
are capable of transmitting it onto the levels of reality with which they are
in contact is the enigma for us to explore. Whether on numberless rainy days
the drops kissing the soil can be heard, or, the kisses are voiced out by the
humming sound, is a mystery of a similar sort. But bigger than these, or, any
imaginable code-protected phenomenon for that matter, is one’s indifference to
possible answers. Put from a subject-free perspective: The irrelevance of
either answer.
: Orajt all! Now, to whom to shoot my
question–that is the question now. Which will not keep bothering me for
long…because if I learned anything during this… what all the oscillations keep
slide-style moving along the death-life scale…is to kinda cut the unnecessary
whirlpool of bewilderment (having indulged for some time in the seductiveness
of its tormenting pleasure-pain shifts) and, in a kneejerk fashion, hear my own
inner voice as somebody else’s whisper. That said, I choose Sonnunta Arcada! to
be the target of somebody else’s whisper-turned-my inner voice-turned a
question for somebody…who happens to be YOU. Now, I hear the
reverberation of the whisper that sets my mind in a specific state–preparatory,
so to speak...a hallway leading towards a full-fledged interrogative form of
the verbalized tissue of my thought…While I’m acutely fixated on its tender
delays, I am being transformed into a decoding machine, translating the nearly
infraaudible noises onto not-yet-ultraaudio sound. What I hear can, in words
known to man, be expressed as follows: How
aethical is it to think aethically?
:Daplotri
: Yo! Wassup! Familiar as I might be with the
nature of the transformations you are referencing in an extended introduction
to the core of the ienquiry in question, I, at the same time, can by no
means guarantee that I find your utterance completely comprehensible. However,
that I take to be resulting from my lousy capacity to convert audible material
into an imagined written form. For me what can be read is only what is
materialized as the written word. All the alternatives I take to be almost the
wagers for my failing to satisfy the addressee’s desire to be given an answer.
Yet it neither prevents me from trying to respond, nor does it diminish the pleasure
I get from the process of conversing. The preparatory stage of such a complex
task is to wish strongly, visualizing it at that, if not in strictly image-like
terms, that my ashes be dispersed over
the branches of the beech tree from the memory of my childhood as it’ld have
been told and recorded by my posterity. Second, I surrender to the detonation
of the words describing, albeit ignoring any reference to spatially situating
the scenes, the act of burying my remains under the roots of the willow tree,
drenched in my ancestors’ tale of their own death wish. Once the generational post mortem visions converge at the
point where the universe’s cry can be heard if the senders of the respective
visions show their IDs confirming the fervent listeners’ citizenship, I start
seeing one’s spoken expression acquiring a form of the word recorded in the
written form. The initial stage of such a transformation resolutely and
unfailingly opens with the Truth #1: Urban legend has it that most of the
translating business is bulls*it, which it is. But so are most urban legends.
To me, to be able to begin any kind of activity, especially those related to
the stringent procedural ordeals of the trade I chose to invest my academic
capital in, I need to hear this truth in its entirety. More so, I necessitate
to be alertly aware of its tangential, yet vital, connection to the fact that
proves impatience to be the most gratifying of life generating strategies.
Having had the fusion of the Truth #1 and its accessories reach the heart of my
linguistic machinery, I inaugurate the advancement of transforming the content
into the only one understandable to me. All the imprecision, imperfection,
ignorance, ignoration, and
incomprehensibility, carefully calculated, predicted, and included in the
horizon of expectations both on behalf of me as the creator of the answer and
that of the creator of the question, united in being doomed to failure in
either asking or answering…well…just about anything…Once I arm myself with the
equipment I need to launch my thought to the heights of wordneckbreaking and
shoot a breathtaking transfer beyond my idiosyncratic boundaries, thereby for a
tiny second making of myself the Popeess of anticlimactic slogans, I am ready
to decipher the meaning of the printed world-appropriated expression. Presuming
that I have gone through all the abovementioned preparations while explicating
the procedure itself, I am found at the apex of shooting a loser’s attempt to
meet the requirements off A/Q games.
Who Time It Is
:
Having sheen your vocally uttered interrogative statement in the form of the
printed world inscription in the pool of uncertainty, with the unshakable bias
towards stubble simplicity, On How To Phunkie Remix (ØØØØ) translates
the situation into:
: How.
Here’s to Ben! You’ve been listening to WELD/Program.
Awm. It is 3:30 PM, time for your humble DJ to thank you all for being with us.
Thanks ladies’n’gents, comrade cyborg-talkers! You’ve been listening to WELD/Program.
Awm. It is 3:30 PM, time for your humble DJ to thank you all for being with us.
More of our activities can be found just around the corner in a spectacular,
kaleidoscopic maze through the enchanting realities of both written and spoken
word.
Dapoltri!
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