smears, splotches.

la revolution surrealiste: Long live the social revolution

Mon, 20 May 2013 00:05:45 -0400

la revolution surrealiste: Long live the social revolution:

The juxtapositions of an irrational heart
can cause empathy in the viewer,
an erect shaft for the xenophile:

It’s obvious over time that
Ellery’s grating the block
with surly trims, posted up
by a pretty wall of mimosas,
enlivening us
with her fragmentary light.

And as the sweet…

king of bones.

Sun, 19 May 2013 23:08:00 -0400

“There is a void outside of existence that if entered into englobes itself and becomes a womb.”

—Blake, JERUSALEM

ONE DRAFT:

consider where the faultline is …
l;dkcsj gklfdjgk nfkjglnr gre
tg tre
y5;nhn hklnhkgrw
g34
r
3qwtmgntklmolp4jpmng
;nmkl;
nmwkln5%$#POJio9j0
&/h.,the event horizon, rather. it is
a place, in time. it is an object

made out of time: in much
the same way, you are

made out of body,
and blood.

what lies there was and is the first of its kind,
and was before everything else, once: this
thing as time, your thought as crisply from a thought.

you exist for time: yeah„,

yeah: you are governed back there on the planet by this.
once passing the faultline however, you endeavor
to control a minutes fathoming yourself.

when you are finally beyond, you stand
on eternity. you stand as though minutes would

be the floor beneath your
feet; all of them together
an eternity already run thru.

. . . . . . . . .

you went to work and created things.

your creation in the vacuum would have not
been so infinite had you not done it here;

the thought itself being only to survive here, in

this one place of time, this object-time.

. . . . . . . . .

after you stepped over the curvature, things
changed: you, in your docile and hovering look observed

the masque of this giant displacement: and thus

it is an endless propulsion of an object withheld,
approached out of order: when
one gives to the other, the other is around to reign in that idol.

both presupposing a refusal, however,
the giver dies of waiting
to be taken: withers out like a snuffed

candle obliging into curvy, lifting strings, agate of smoke,
haunted by the scent of wax.

. . . . . . . . .

after countless eons, the need for that object becomes based-
-less in survival and more in some though still feral,
more cerebral than survival addiction
to destroying what each see the other as: as an extraneous
pod of lifeless life: there is a crucial sense of danger felt in

acknowledging a serious antipathy
and not killing anything despite, you bet. in fact, the great irony
of course is that both possess

the other always but do not know, and
—unsatisfied—each one thinks of all the time spent without
a snagging of (and with a stubby quickness

of the small, calculating child) this: the bizarre fruits from a tree
somewheres deep in the chambers: of the backyard
of the neighborhood metaphysic … at this point, this
place that is in time—an object as all time—is thoroughly
accustomed to this biting of tails

and ageless in its indifference. agelessness. you desire to quit
this VOID now. you desire to rest your feet on some abundance of gravity.

you gave to these warring similitudes no sign
of coronal. this is a roundabout, you think.
you notice this and do not care—being as equally ageless.

. . . . . . . . .

but, the time-object was filling
massively with aether. it was

beyond all destitute items
of your puny little universe to describe:
in reality, these suspicious

outsiders outside that solo infinite fact, known here
by you … these items: things, things that you own,

and which are not yourself: things one is used to see
in front of them—they altogether fall benignly

out of the great head: you no longer perceive
what has fallen. you derive an intimate fear of losing;

unknown what is lost, but felt in its passing out of mind.
you feel the creation
gone: know that it is there, still,
in the past: before its destruction. the place of time,
the time-object, has taken out
from under a majority of solids the former,
pleasing characters of solidness-
-that were within, around
your passionate organism, swarming … while restless,
your sensed ideas, equivocalities, emotions
and invisibles contain themselves in solid state: you think that

you understand
better now where it is a hole might be. it is
located square in the middle of your life back on the
planet, was nowhere to be found here, until you lost

your own creation somewheres traveling
about this cell of ignorant space. infecting, choosing to infect that purity with
what touchable life there

is to crust over with beliefs reticently held,
and you in a chaos, in a solution of VOID. so then
in your questing it is found: the VOID that connects all

growth and creation back to a banging of parts
against this total nothing you have infiltrated: once whole and
still so but by the fracturing of awareness into bootless

motion of thoughts that bury the subject …
well, i suppose this makes a whole as like
inevitability there:

yeah, yeah: when one cant turn back: and
this inevitability shit blows because-

-all matter of your reality retreats from you:
as you enter ever further
into this place of time, you see afar the

material eidolons you abandoned upon crossing
that holy threshold: once clutched quickly to,
these totems shrink out of a damned sight plagued over
with brown, liquid clouds: wounded,
and yet they have freed themselves-
-out of possible capture, at this point.

your vision, being all you can hold on to, works its way
throughout the berms of a stranded left eyeball searching
to picture an object, any, somewheres-
-in this time of only substance, of no time.

a when where it will stop being necessary
to clip ones wings. a sizable vortex
instead to fly one thru. but out?

consider that things perhaps …
dont need what you want to give.

think then that qualities you see
in WORLD are—to say it without conceit,
unseen by others—who walk down
with you, across WORLD.

… … … … … … … .

DRAFT TWO:

consider where the faultline is that cuts off
these voices this ruin of voices marauding like a tribe of yellow gypsies
scalping english krackers out in the sticks: these two dandies
biting off more than they could chew, to begin with: no grinning
tramp to kill the dust that gathers like an ashy fugue
all up in that shitty bricked aperture anymores: perhaps
not a chimney, at all, period, for them, to keep them warm, and now-
-so very far away they were from that old cheeky coiffure whom
this pair of idiots had loved to chat a day’s worth with,
his business just round the corner: and, the inflated
discourse between them and him about cultured, spicy things,
artfully, artfully risque: these things that tell and fervently
of temptations buttery goodness and
delectable nougat center … yes … useless hair, hilariously atop two
useless heads wrapped with cloth-
-about the necks of them: hair,
coiffed and pared with a professional distance as
empty of flourish as this empty talk: they couldnt
settle debts, these two—and it should be known (dont know why)
that this coiffure was quite discomfited
at that: wary: the balms of any kind: hemlock (poisonous
in large doses) nepenthe or whatever, laudanum,
opium, somesuch concoctions mostly
out of date, these days …
it is not so modern to not know at least partly the ingredients
of what one is about to ingest: this mysterious green
vial of mysterious liquid—i hold it in my hand—like some crazy
remembrance of a past life—before guzzling: down the hatch: yes,
theyd say: to drive out the spleen, to make one giddy!
these very things of pleasure in
damaging are too far and away for them
to try and hide in now in this passed present before
death-by-scalping—yeesh—and before also theyre
last time of peace, itself before that grisliness … but,
more on that later. utter, glorious
bacchanal usually was the
plan: the compass that was used
in directing them round a schedule of different-
-households: of wasteful madness: each rich eccentric
with their own color of absurdity: different scholars
and different addictions in each one each
friend they knew as closely as acquaintance would allow:
one with a private ZOO even.
and all the days of their bourgeoisie bullshit lassitude, living
by virtue of a bath a year: no longer: now, fucked:
financial asceticism—philosophically speaking—was
required for this
foolish venture into the shithills, considering
the skinniness of both fellows respective purse. having tired of
their easy existence, but in large
part because they had to, these two goons
elected to travel together deep into
the thick, balmy woodland somewheres
northwest, and a few acres in—where they are, now, waiting to
be scalped, just waiting—but once it was carnal orgiastic
CONNECTICUT, filled with cities and
wealth and and and underneath a spirit of the race
of kings: a place at the hilt of what was then a new country:
a place where once they were (epexegesis:
both taken together are seeming of a comedic duo sort;
spoiled, vacant blunderers i see them as) cloistered, in the softness
of carriage-life, city-life: these
clownish fauntleroys, now dead—as i write their story—
but once tramped down their
age with powdered wigs and canes to suit your fancy,
swallowing snuff and blinking slightly at whatever homicidal
and/or intellectual revolutions of the day there were;
uncomprehending of the news, tucked behind their
powderpuff as if they had just heard wisdom
fortitudinous. it was an age
where/when people said
shit like, “be sure now to make haste” or, “properly hush you
with your libelous claims!” or, “dont catch the
string when you weave it thru the heddles
on the loom.” interesting: inundated already,
and at that present with works
of clear art and muddy, prolific science and beautifully designed,
though inaccurate muskets supplied with flint—nonetheless—people
still had to pinch a loaf in a bucket, once: in folks mouths perhaps,
for enjoyment, such as these two heroes of my story
have done on more than one occasion. just
a couple of victorian-era faggot shiteaters,
they were: nameless, yes: after all,
kinkiness isnt really a new idea: we just, well, uh, we live in an open
WORLD of ubiquitous agreement about openness: anyways: ultimately,
i speak of nothing but a supernatural coalescing with flame and sky: that-
-place in some cave where shiteating faggots dwell,
like caucasian cavemen—and sleep,
arriving at some cave the night
before their final schedule with a crew of gypsies
crooked in the spine
and teeth, tongue, yellow and humid with bloodthirst
and fatigue: days of voyaging around the land of rocks
without enuff water: shiteaters spurned: once
without a home or a chimney, taking a break moreover from the
need of course to VOID/consume bowels and longing for a
rest from preversion and such, they sought
—yes sought—a place of safety yet expanse … out there,
in the haunted alcove of some cave, far off in the western hemisphere.
people without much suddenly like them are usually lulled
to sleep by that very fire, orange and crackling vividly, having not else
but heat that, incidentally, surprise!, kept thems alone
people warm with the help
of thick and hairy afghans: a sound of the little fire fierce and sounding
alienation: approaching in floating silken roseate embers towards
some melodious summit of the quiet sky, untouched by firmament, and yet
itself a clear demarcation in its own wholeness
of consumption: made a power in
its harping of death to limits, limits not even yet fleshed
out: a sky, a consumption, a thing broad and powerful, and yet on what
goes the light of its expanse: thrown on that solitude of
that hovel of peace where they sleep, thems antique friends
curled up in quilted snugness: two lights, perhaps,
make the things unreal: the tiny, controlled flame and
the flame of the sky: what is illuminated is yet all more an outline
of thems folk that look upon the night and become unreal, silhouettes.
the event horizon is there in what passed on afterwards,
is a moment beyond the brain, ahead of us-
-to ford, lying pathetically in stagnation, waiting for
itself to become relevant, and the idleness to spark
even from a weak, dousedtwice fire, and like that:

. . . . . . . . .

like some concept of our existence, rife-
-with silly bacteria, chomping logic down, reproducing
whatever brilliant residuum is left after the eating of it,
coming as like a chuffing train thru
some ancient american town where the stoic amish still piss
and shit in buckets: the past is as sexy a mileu
as that environment lain like the flat face of goings-on
on the crescent table in the WAR ROOM. periplum,
leading on a dotted red line,
swerving this way, that way across
the mountainous topography of someplace. a person (such as me,
who would as well smash himself in the face
to spite another; that other’s face, imagined
stupidly on top of his own on purpose, being too afraid) might set in his
head something that that pretty person sees as right spang
on the matter of what was clearly
a state between to know and live,
clearly an umbrella dripping over into the subject,
rather than one impressive, gold standard of a thought.
might as well have had a brick of hash and hookah
for this charade of a periplum: prophetic shit forced into
knowledge, prematurely: wouldve brought cookies to the
orgy shaped like depraved shit … for fun! but im out of cellophane,
no boxes, wouldve had nothing to carry the pastries in.
naughty muffins? masks, to keep an anonymous air
while fucking, so afterwards nobody is sadly hooked
on another: funny, people usually have to see a face to get hooked
on someone; faceless people,
you dont usually see thems round the dating scene: anyways: dildos:
sextoys, yes: and a DVD of EYES WIDE SHUT playing-
-in the background, i guess, to create a little
ambience, yes. that periplum there, of the fugue between,
happens after naked humans languish awhile in their sweat:
in the swallowing of limbs of faceless
others they become hideous as water in a swamp,
untended by GOD. when you cant
turn back, and observed,
gross reality retreats, i speak to you, close to you,
making you shiver and gag with ugly words spoken-
-into your immaculate ear. you shiver, upon realizing my own
putrid presence as a thing next to you and useless but for
the disgust you feel upon hearing my flawed voice.
my breath, yes, smelling with a sharp fungus-odor
of a perverted, dirty satan of the psyche: being really just an idle GOD,
since any one summation of a GOD that just might be
might be a GOD of movement to replace the flaw
with something only not a flaw for a little while. this, rather than a GOD
unworked, whose rules are law forever … when up against the
humane confusion of humans,
clocking themselves in the face to simulate the feeling
of clocking in the dome someone else: the physical pain
compensated both by
seeing the simulation as reality,
and by the person’s frustrations turned then to a lesser
smog that makes us cough out in cruelly demotic tones the problems
we have regarding someone else, that we conceal. this
human confusion, and this plan
is to be if by an idle GOD, undone by an overestimation regarding
the spread of its own grand hand
over the love of our passions, giving us
patterns to follow, instead, which we would break. eh hramph

(DRAFT#1: consider where the faultline is:
the event horizon, when you cant
turn back, and observed,
gross reality retreats.

when it will stop being necessary
to clip our wings.

consider that things perhaps
dont need what you want to give.

think then that qualities you see
are, to say without conceit, unseen
in others… .)

so then though they are real in our
solipsism: whatever non-existences
we do not recognize are still all a
faction of the brain in a simp with a good bag and cheap shoes;
are a symbol for our maintained thoughtlessness.

erroll garner. blessings

Sun, 19 May 2013 21:40:46 -0400

erroll garner. blessings

pain

Sun, 19 May 2013 21:08:46 -0400

pain

kill me

Sun, 19 May 2013 20:57:55 -0400

kill me

love as thing.

Sun, 19 May 2013 20:50:56 -0400

I’d like to have it again I’d like
to have love again and know
it like her eyes and and and

in my rapture I
drool out rough diamonds in a
screech that, like something
plaintive and honest scatters
like sweat shaken off in the
hopes against hopes both
queer and understandable
of fathoming and well yeah
you know knowing the ugly
truth about love which I am
indeed aware is pretty much
the same as patenting this
thing of love putting it in a
box and

crushing wealth out of it and
crushing it in this crusade-

-to find love I find I love finding the
indescribable things that say
themselves out of trapping so
that transcendence as this proves
love impossible to find if
impossible to describe in other
words I have come to think that
thinking’s what it’s all about
when in reality probably there is
little to say of my quaint little words
bubbling round a circumference
that dodges apt speech and
thought

incorrigible I know but it’s
the way things are and in the
ways of love I find the closest
I can get to understanding the
ways of love is to grow ripe for
a strength a strength to somehow
express myself and my being in it
being in the searching that is and

in the experience of
searching well yeah well
you know I find out that that’s
what love is: that is, it is so very
experiential and remote from all
defining since to define is to wrap
it up and well yeah well you know
love is infinite you know and cannot be
wrapped up rather it couches-
-itself behind, beyond definition. True Love. Catastrophe. I know 
nothing of it; I wish to know even less than that. Pain. A curse on the 
body and the mind. Stupidity. Selfishness. Contempt for your fellow 
man. True Love. A contradiction. An unreachable source. Contradicting 
itself always. It is never finished. It is only begun, over and over, 
until it suffocates, dies. True Love: coy love. A curse on the senses; 
it enraptures and overstimulates. It denies what rightfully belongs to 
it, in the hopes that something better comes along. True Love. The only 
true thing. The connection between two bodies does not sustain. We make 
it sustain. We breathe. We tell secrets. Sweet nothings. So much yet so 
little to take away: that is, everything. We dignify the act of sex: 
this speaks to how desperate we are for answers that we think we can 
find in another person. We can. We can only find those answers for as 
long as we are with that person. Once that person is gone, so is the 
answer. I will not make one up in solitude; I cannot do this, I do not 
wish to do this. True Love. A beautiful thing. A horrid thing; it is 
horrid and beautiful. It is only beautiful. It is not horrid. It is not 
horrid it is grace tenfold . . . it is the wonder of oneself in 
another, found in another body, another SOUL. Another SOUL to shape the 
clay and gratify . . . to touch, and feel, and desist at the point when 
lust becomes ravenous, and, only then, to delve back down the throat 
and smithereen the heart . . . the heart beats tenfold. True Love. 
Loss. Despair. Utter despair. Unceasing. Yes, always my heart'll beat 
tenfold faster . . . the WORLD louder, the cancer spreading until I die 
of love. True Love. That which repeats itself in frustration, in the 
hopes that less will come of it---and yet it remains just as powerful. 
No regrets. An infinite wealth of pain awaits me: I greet the pain, I 
kiss the hand of pain. I regret nothing and will go on regretting 
nothing as the cancer spreads. True Love. Consumption and Death made to 
breed life from the tubers. It grows, and grows, and afterward we look 
upon what had been life before the event of Love and find that life did 
not exist before that moment. The moment of the inception of Love & 
Life. The beautiful life expressed falsely, expressed well but falsely. 
No regrets afterward. No life afterward. No life before. Merely the 
instant is there, extending for months. Supernova. Creation & 
Destruction. True Love. A destruction of truth, a stripping down of 
these my lofty creations, the creations of an absent silhouette of a 
man, a man who breeds now only himself, from himself, squeezing the 
heart out of a creature who had provided so much happiness. True Love. 
Happiness. Two different things. Love is not happiness. It is 
jklrtjkrehtjknhetjkerjktbfklkfgh.

That's what love is, and nothing, and nothing but everything in the 
WOLRD, and any feeble attempt to describe this chimera is useless. True 
Love: useless. Love is kind. It is we who are wretched.

What happened to me? Where hath the shadows filledThat they themselves too have made more shadows,...

Sun, 19 May 2013 20:41:44 -0400

What happened to me? Where hath the shadows filled
That they themselves too have made more shadows, have
Made there more, more shadows, doubt soulless,
And eternal requiem? I have tried to fill them,
Cannot fill them. There is in
A thing too much the hue a nullity beyond colors. That is that.
And here, I give my record of decline, a noble space,
One more, one more space for me to drive
To miracles, and hearken seeking something in the grave
That can be found alive. What happened to that man?
What happened. The question, as if unheard,
Once heard, once heard, I thought I heard it once.
Now all that’s left: the bathos of regret

And diminishing

SO I CONTRADICT MYSELF.

Sun, 19 May 2013 20:29:00 -0400

Admittedly I know your purpose halfway thus
Have captured half of what you are,
Caged it, studied it with acuity, hoping to reduce
The yellowing of my soul in jaundice,
I understand my self my soul as halfway—

In sojourn to Paumonok searching for
The Walt of Me Myself but only find
The parts of ways I fathomed myself in
You—Morphing Amalgam—open to all,
All others together as lone particles halfway netted
In the filigree of your invention I know I am
At least a part, one part, of your invention, at least—
I would know that light as but its assertion upon walls
Is a fact dumbly exorcised from the detail—
I know that light does not outwardly
Account in full for the science of its canvassing against shadow.

I nod at the wrought tangles of my species,
Relative to the kelson of their own nature—

As well as the many weaves of the palindromes backward
Whispering patterns of my species—we go forth and
It is yet the same pattern speaking, and so then
Is timeless, without time,
I see you Whitman, as old as GOD, without time.

And I know the seeking forth thus—yet not the understanding,
I know nothing of your cadences and so throw up my hands, and knot
The old knot of contrariety, and burn the facts
Without proper examination, simply because
They confuse me—they froth the acids partooking
The grease of my gut—questions belched out the valve
And made unsolvable yet smelled in the reeking of my breath—
Questioning of power and advice, a low quaking of the nerves
Both moral and amoral, forward and backward spinning,
And stashed by the covering cherub in me that starves

That I have ignored in myself, though you continue to clock her movements.

Walt Whitman, you are alien and menacing, you are
More false than true, and yet you do not cramp
The fanatical idols of EARTH, the seethe
Of mixed friends, the calluses of hands merged in prayer,
The tendencies of whores, the differing palpitations
Of old men and young.

And so I—like mewling malcontent—though I disregard
The respect of most old things, preferring

My adolescence,
And yet grudgingly I seek your cadences as I would seek
The cadences that mark moss mandated green by the cells of living,
By verda across the periploca,
A fine tangent of growth that thrives
On the nearby weeping margent of a local river.
I know you are as barren as you are fruitful
And take all in, as all are beautiful, and, eventually,
Over long years of refusal you have taught me
That ugliness is a reigning gamma over heavy hearts
And light hearts, the ridden as much as the relieved,
And by that reigning, bleak penitence, each in his
Turn may turn upsidedown for the sake of
Attainable gravity, for the sake of a level head,
Back and forth, backward and forward the same, nonetheless,
For the sake of a level head, for normalcy in the head,

And still I understand there is no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

"I have always been a wretched speaker. My vocabulary dwells deep in my mind and needs paper to..."

Sun, 19 May 2013 20:22:33 -0400

““I have always been a wretched speaker. My vocabulary dwells deep in my mind and needs paper to wriggle out into the physical zone. Spontaneous eloquence seems to me a miracle. I have rewritten — often several times — every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasures.””

- Vladimir Nabokov (via paperboatsandaeroplanes)

basically me

Wallace Stevens, “Study of Two Pears” IOpusculum paedagogum.The pears are not...

Sun, 19 May 2013 16:50:00 -0400

Wallace Stevens, “Study of Two Pears”

I
Opusculum paedagogum.
The pears are not viols,
Nudes or bottles.
They resemble nothing else.

II
They are yellow forms
Composed of curves
Bulging toward the base.
They are touched red.

III
They are not flat surfaces
Having curved outlines.
They are round
Tapering toward the top.

IV
In the way they are modelled
There are bits of blue.
A hard dry leaf hangs
From the stem.

V
The yellow glistens.
It glistens with various yellows,
Citrons, oranges and greens
Flowering over the skin.

VI
The shadows of the pears
Are blobs on the green cloth.
The pears are not seen
As the observer wills.

Photo

Sun, 19 May 2013 14:30:56 -0400

Photo

Sun, 19 May 2013 14:28:05 -0400

Selfie

Sun, 19 May 2013 14:23:44 -0400

Selfie

inakiotaola: “TENEMOS UN PROBLEMA VISUAL” we got a visual...

Sun, 19 May 2013 14:17:04 -0400

inakiotaola:

“TENEMOS UN PROBLEMA VISUAL”

we got a visual problem

understood as smoke.

Sun, 19 May 2013 03:05:00 -0400

There is little out of life

I could not get

from your eyes. Or: that guttural voice, that

voice, tampered with by cigarette

smoke—a voice, a

demon’s, fuming, o dear,

O one of mine once. O my drift: one

of mine, once, now away and

done: done,

with me: me and the damnable lies:

devil-man, me; you, the demon born out

the skull of the devil-

man, though once fully yourself,

that is, wrenched

from me, become an angel,

angered: down to the last worn

out knot of breath you feel

it, you feel me,

in your breath, fuming: and, sadly,

my pleached loving goes drifting in bolts,

lightening-bolts, out into

the cosmos, yes,

eventually woven and

voyaging through: it goes into the forest-

-yes: where the yarrow grows in thickets with

bloomed flowers, miniature and tenuous:

it tells me,

warns: of ugliness,

in myself: brief,

thwarted love,

love for that which

contains me in answers like a fucking

cocoon—to keep souls as me from

voyaging the little

branches out, out, out into the cosmos„,

black with deadened

lulls, and me the figure out the mind-

-of BECKETT with his bag

of cans, trudging through wet mud,

hearing his story like a memory from everywhere

around: an omniscient voice: I hear it even here-

-speaking words; the words, that

is, that at present are come into being

written, go beyond being written into just

being: themselves in

getting a voice to wake ‘em up from

powerful flatness that might just be that aware

thing of misery, the last

corner of the room,

somewheres

in the throat of the storied stories shouted

in a dull lull by the voice,

above: a vessel

for this my own phenomenon

of love and states of love, works of

it: BECKETT, talk,

you absurd man: bellow the memory

down to me in an answering

strike to slump me, finally; and, yet-

-you’re given she to bellow

down: she: she

speaks, and I hear

her opus like a breath: I try to blow it

back upwards

to heaven, though

it goes from there down

to my imaged figure; shaking,

stays with it; and, cut into

the heart, hers—answers,

each, from you, her, you throat, you confessional

valve, hers: your opening opening finally

up to judge: juddge, yes,

just me, judge me, yes,

you just judge me, unjustly, give

her the vessel your voice above: fuck

you, BECKETT: you

scintillating creature on

the cusp of an utter appearance

of pure being: she

typifies you in heaven in a-

-shy self-conscious mocking:

most holy, whole, and full, embracing:

you make of herself a womb-

-to hold my dirty

soul:

in an incubated room: somewheres„,

somewheres in your bleak heart: you, love,

forget the voice, absurd voice

of voids: you-

-kind love: head, heart: both dissected,

vamped all twain without a bother to put

it back together because it’s

without me this time: and anyway

is already in some enmeshment-

-of a sort: no, no

bothering taken, however, to get

me a part of the enmeshment: that

is, if only for the sake

of me not taking, being not being taken,

by me: this don’t

make no goddamn

sense: please, make

sense, and give existence

a try: the in-itself that BECKETT

and I offer you, even though

you think he’s the one giving: make sense of me,

love, instead; speak in your own voice,

speak like PIM: tell me

what to do, love, please,

grow me out of yourself, love, until you

grow out of me: hear me out:

tell of yourself, tell yourself

to me, give my

omens a demon to relate their petty selves

to. Why? Why what? Can you hear me when

I ask you questions, DAN, and you’re asleep:

you always answer me; when awake,

skirt around the issue:

but when you’re sleeping you answer:

answer me plainly: answer,

regardless-

-of whether what comes out pleases,

displeases: who were you: who

were you to me: are you:

pah-too-loo-ugh

this is silly—you just don’t get it, you,

love, lovely you—you just

don’t understand

things any different: it’s

cuz of me: your

pretty loveliness is what cravenly-

-I sublimate: sublimate,

yes, with jokes:

that is:

you love to joke, you

love to make yourself a beauty:

to look all beautiful beyond the voice:

a, the vessel for the voice

above, absurd, to reach down

to EARTH with: who

would you, love, be-

-without BECKETT: a beauty still to me,

in yourself, an angel, yes, yes:

even if only through your own shyness, your

timidity; silence, verbose

in the corner: you like others

to think you frail, right?

pah-too-loo-ugh

all I can say is that

that’s it, once wasn’t: I made

some

bad decisiobn,sfklhsdklfh„wejklhtwerjkvj

kjkm

5677

y56uh

jh76u,k

,.uk.y,k

k7mt

,o,kbfioweur9r534u4583

rteg45656

e5h,y8

y756785686

y6t4gdfghnh,.h.;./

1.,3/f0lejkaaand now it’s what it always was: life

is life, always will be

life, damn it: this, look

… … … .

at this albatross: this bird hung

across my neck’s not an omen

that some ship of ghosts’ll

plunder me, my

heart, no, of all value; disgrace me

in revealing me to everyone as a vapid soul, sick to

the bone: I just, though timidly,

like you and beautifully

in your omniscient

sound—I just

think you’re a demo,n an

an an unforgivable

essence for me to joke about, to others, with—

PAH

don’t give me reason to stay, DAN:

let me talk whispers to you

at night, speak to you then, when-

-you can’t hide any of yourself as much: when you

can’t act like me: won’t

be timidly persuasive

but hamfisted; to-the-point, but

disorganized: blankly vapidly truly weak.

TOO

Don’t make any sense of the omen,

whatever randomness hangs around my neck, love;

whatever’s plundered, destroyed.

LOO

Follow me into my heart’s forest and

core: confusion’s heat is there: there,

I feel the rasp of your breath, fuming,

held staccato like a gutsy choir framed

in gentle smoke I seem to understand.

UGH

Understand me, DAN. I want to smoke, let’s go

outside, friend; let’s smoke. And fume:

let me chatter with my own, human voice,

and know myself thus without

a voice, to you, who see me rather

as a thing supernatural,

sublime: and so then every voice is right, wrong;

is true, false; is weak and is quite strong: and leave

our madnesses

surreal and dislocated and perturbed

and, and

craven; uhm, suspicious as to the omens

hung around your neck that will present

themselves more fluidly later:

DAN: I confess, you are to me this

house of-

-cards, laden and tough

as a brick-ass bitch. And, love, you

omniscience: seen as that, by me,

absurd, negated and outlived: love,

you’re there: you’re there,

down to the last breath

of smoke. Breathing, fum„,inng sh,ti shit

. . . . .. . .. .

a functioning ambivalence.

Sun, 19 May 2013 01:27:24 -0400

ON ABRAHAM’S SILENCE.

. . . . .. . .. .

Abraham went beyond faith, into a universal consideration of letting go. Similar to one who goes up high to fall further down. In a universal, infinite sort of sense, all that matters is the length of the height between one and another discernment; there is no side to side, no numerical order, no gradient. Only the volume distributes the substance, because overall it is devotion that leads to any perfect thing, infinite devotion for an infinite thing. To not need to understand this, even unconsciously, and yet to consciously live out to its end the climbing up, steeper and steeper, the way more precarious, without an extreme fall? To have an infinite, objective faith implicating an infinitely leveled metaphysic?

The universal perspective in Abraham lies here in a functioning ambivalence—ignoring the encroaching, brutal event he must commit to pass, and as time passes without a word to evidence he could not share either way. He is committing to his function as a subject of his God, but does not know his function, because his God demands this from him without reason. He must have felt the role of Prometheus stealing the torch, to know not how he might make others see, if even he himself could not. Without the extreme fall, as Abraham was spared: that is, to put all of one’s vigilance to an order from upstairs that a Christian God, He himself did not see through to the end: a much the higher thing did: that is, not what makes a Christian God Absolute, the Absolute, not the infinite object itself, containing all ignorantly; but a thing aware of all, everything, omniscient in the truest sense. Such a thing is indeed no container but impresses like scales over our vision; it is ephemeral precisely because it is precise, each, every perspective, thought, every reality, every WORLD a crystal case. This I believe carries its own possibility of an Subjective Absolute, and these two poles themselves combined, a container that is all, but not the characteristically different things themselves, in unity, with an infinitely variable state of those things, and which involves an equal discernment of every corner of consciousness in all who are, as if God were peeping all across peoples’ heads; this is simply speaking its own massiver Subjective Absolute, and quite un-Christian.

God stays Abraham’s hand, and too was saved by the infinite mechanism in Abraham’s function as to the role of a very much more abstract, aware God, what on a universal level amounts to something morally straight: a way of morals however, at this scale, somewhat like the conservation of energy, where relevance is neither produced nor destroyed but maintains itself in a permanent sternness.

At a point where height is lost and depth takes over, there is no longer a fall or rise: there is stasis held in place amidst the silent pitch of darkest void: held in place by a faith, a baffling faith that ‘it is good’. Such an intimate thing might also be something wooden, and, indeed, obstinate, unyielding, stern.

Neither produced nor destroyed. It is to have a supreme sense of Abraham’s faith, to apprehend a belief that what should be rightly will be. So then maybe Abraham shut his mouth for himself and to lie the next time he spoke. To soothe himself, because he loved his son.

He had no choice, or to recognize his God’s absurdity instead of his own. By calling himself no father of Isaac, rather than telling him it was God’s will he kill him. Then at least, Isaac prays for a merciful God, uplifts Him, instead of cursing God to the ill luck in being given a loon for a father, who thinks he hears God. In denying the divinity Abraham so surely might have experienced, one puts the earnest truth upon Isaac’s shoulders. Abraham is willing to dishonor all of himself so that his son might still retain his faith; Abraham reveals nothing, so that he proves his faith and his sanity. The insane mind voices to convince others of his delusions; the sane, merely, learn to keep their delusions under control, and the matter tight-lipped.

As well, by virtue of the absurd, it is too unbelievable to tell anyone else, too real to ignore in oneself. It is the going-through of a plan that would directly involve informing someone, especially if it’s God who’s informed you, your son’s life that must be given, without reason.

That if he were to reveal the reasons for what came to pass of this to anyone would dishonor the pact between himself and—God—is true, but why? From a psychological standpoint, consider the opposing possibility: that Abraham heard voices, and murdered his son, he later tells, because it was the will of the Lord—in whatever sense you want to put it, I’m not a Christian. It is the idea that it happened but he does not say so that is important to consider because, otherwise, how is there evidence? Would that not worry him? But Abraham is in faith trusting that it was indeed a divine presence that he experienced. Otherwise we would consider him a murderer! How is there a story of Abraham in the Bible unless the man himself was an extraordinary case; as it is by definition an ignoring of evidence, faith, but for the means of shrouding the horrible deed that must be done, in fact remaining all but reticent on the three days journey, until Abraham and Isaac come upon Mount Moriah.

An extraordinary case, indeed; unless it were a complete fabrication and no man named Abraham ever existed, whose slaughtering hand was stayed before upon the throat of his son, by God?

But on the level of what amounts to mere mortal distinguishing of right and wrong, in the moment, at least, the only reason we consider Abraham in the Bible, from what I can tell, is for the miracle in that his hand is stayed by God, and for the devoutness—of one willing to sacrifice his best for his faith. And of course, honestly, truly, it is as simple as that, of course.

… … .

Look over this again, if you have the time. I just wrote this, it’s about Kierkegaard and his book, Fear and Trembling. Check it out. I’m almost finished with The Sickness Unto Death. Both of them are masterful.

I wanted to explain to you that you should see my work as a universe unto itself, that whatever I speak of you should find the sense in, because I do, if only you give the shape time to emerge. And then, like as here, you’ll find that there is a realm of understanding much able for a man to enter, but not dwell in. That one’s place in his head can indeed fathom unfathomables, though his head, strapped by anxieties, cannot put all of himself there.

Thus it is a matter of volume, and my arguments are, there^ that Abraham’s case is extraordinary because it is selfless, in an absurd way; besides the love for his son and the sacrifice there, it is a selfless act still, to take the rap for God’s insanities. In the words of Kierkegaard he is indeed the—Knight of Faith—for his silence on the subject, decisively. It is a general way that perhaps while not needing to be ritualistic is consistent in its result as to the respect of paying duty to the unfathomable.

And here, a substance, too, though unfathomable; that a foundation for consistency could itself be a ritual, though not ritualistically repeated but used as a jumpstart at random times. One thinks that God caught Abraham in the crunch, a timing deadly swift, as when a heart on the brink of not beating again is brought to the thrust again by two chest-prongs of electricity.

As with Philosophy On The Main, an understanding what should consistently come together, indeed, a clean, objective matter, substantive: that things should organize and at some level be the very extremity of perfect, and which will be, though time obstruct one by even passing from seeing their record, and yet once one broadens their scope of this to include the next possibility in the line, then at least there is that hint to direct one to the best one, what might sensibly happen. And perhaps a case for fate, once one takes on an universe of this. What a horror then, to be asked to sacrifice your best one, as with Abraham!

What I was trying to explain was this: so lets say I need to find relief and relent to prayer: and lets say I do this, without fail, for a long time, as a general platelet on which to judge my own surety as to what I believe is good and right, as a way nearly like a superstition, that if only repeated would dissolve the peripheral worries as to this if nothing else: and lets say moreover that I were to take it to a level where it became not so ritualistic: that it was not so general, how I paid my respects to what is good and right: that I did it differently every day, and yet still the superstitious feeling was retained—that what I had to do to fend off this manner of dread as to my way of existence, the ‘obstinate questionings’ as Wordsworth puts it, in a present moment, changed.

Surely this is more like a compulsion based off of a reaction to anxiety, but not completely outside the realm of faith in a higher being. This in a way is different and somewhat less a strength, because it’s never a tracking of the source of anxiety but rather provides helpful hints to what is an endless shuffling of anxieties to different areas of the mind, different statures.

This of course would be enough for anyone to feel resigned, if one is powerless to their sensations as to affecting the process of thoughts.

One of course must have the thought first, before God does, in order to experience what is it’s unbelievable difference: that is, the sensation, the tingling of the flesh, is our reward for the courage to have been unchained by the thought of powerlessness, if only for a moment; that is, that God is fate, that there is even an Absolute and All-Knowing thing, disregarding this precept, and then having faith in oneself, once you are outside of the WORLD whatever Absolute could give. And yet like Abraham realized, such a thing—Absolute—cannot, once silenced, provide those hints, if this periplum, roadmap, schematic, whatever, of fate as to all-that-is is wrested from his own God and given to him who is much the more an ignorant man. One as him takes on the matters of a universal fate of a recurrence ever the deeper, past his own reckoning—that, Abraham realized, was the importance of even the shadow of an Absolute in men’s minds, that it held everything together simply because it was everything, and yet too could he enter faith in a plan beyond the plan of even God itself, in ignorance, perhaps the more, of what it would do once needed to function itself as a subjective wavering thing, able to be snuffed out and all, everything, silenced, with one sleight-o-hand: perhaps the man whom Abraham was was able to use his own humility to his advantage, as if in on the joke that God, too, was in on, to a mightier extent: that we are in control of so much for the sake of what is so little to a grander location, and which would be destroyed, save the humility of that grander location as to its own powerlessness to see Abraham as anything but a little man. So then Abraham has a hunch about the greater thing; the greater thing, encompassing all, has a hunch about what is humane. And within degrees of this, there is folly on both sides of this ultimately sideless length.

As to what Kierkegaard thinks, I believe his hunch about Abraham was this: that we can choose to need to know more past the usefulness of the need, which clearly typifies the use, etches it in the passions, the use of it for the human heart. Once removed from one’s best fate, or, that which moves Abraham’s heart, so then Abraham must rely on an inaccurate morality founded in that his own faith of what is right and wrong fell in line with this order from God.

As a foundational thing in an infinite sense, faith is a ritualistic, atavistic thing. Any skeleton of surety, though fool-proof, is too inaccurate. Why then, once he received no new information, did he assume only up to the point that what must be done done and Isaac slaughtered?

Well, he, Abraham, accepted the gift of what is, such as, his God speaking to him, telling him to kill his son. Abraham here is immediately willing, that is, to play directly into God’s hands, and moreover be a step ahead, just one step, or perhaps a step “before God” as Kierkegaard better says of it, so that an infinite resignation as to one’s powerlessness to perceive anything not choked almost to death by corporeal limits, might dissolve for him, too, as a peripheral worry.

But corporeal limits are all of humanity, who stake much on them, despite they might lose. Does this make Abraham merely inhuman, or divine?

Philosophy On The Main is about that obligatory unfathomable space, perhaps created by man because perceived if of course not understood. There is to an Absolute of course nothing subjective and yet it may be viewed many ways. Anyway, a perception at the least, a notion, of an unfathomable thing, if one pays, compulsively, dues for this, inserting one’s own arbitrariness, might make it in time, perhaps relevant, necessary: if at first one doesn’t in his heart believe it, so too will his sensations precede thoughts, and so too will he be a slave to feelings. My ways of paying respect to what is right and good, these compulsive superstitions that anxieties as to whether I am—in my questioning way—either of these in my own mind insist on replaying, are variable, moreover, they change, paragraph to paragraph, and all a prayer, the same one, different thoughts, on the same objective matter.

"Once you label me, you negate me."

Sun, 19 May 2013 01:24:13 -0400

“Once you label me, you negate me.”

- Soren Kierkegaard

(via tumblrrinserepeat)

One does not discuss Soren. One reads him and feels him.

IN SHORT I WAS.--

Sun, 19 May 2013 01:12:00 -0400

CHAPLINESQUE. Dear GOD. dont worry dad, im fine, great actually. im aware what i sent seems a bit ‘manic’. but im working more with—anagrams—anagrammatic meaning—and i hope you can see i use this word as an all-purpose one to stoke inspiration, mainly.

it is the same as dickinson does with her ‘circumference’ you see. read her poetry, and find that word in a lot of it:

that is to say, a word-

-as assuming the character of what meaning is at large, and not what it is specifically. i am also aware that what meaning is specifically has little to do with anything unreal; it has to do with information: time, place, what you do. things once appearing in my mind-snobbery as abdications. but meaning at large, being the only unreal, is meaning not so large if it is broad, like a statement, larger in the form of a word. this compression of mind to make a word resonate like a poem—whether it be ‘anagram’ or ‘circumference’—is to me actually very un-manic lol,

though what i sent you is of course the insensible blueprint for this sensible place. think of it as more like a symbol than a blueprint actually. a general one for a multi-layered cosmos, directed by as general a—feeling—for the massive unreality of that, without the smallness of its dissection being possible. how else could a feeling be magnificent to a human, if not by the mental trap everybody gets into of ‘picturing’ it; picturing it, as unutterable when it is, as opposed to knowing it as unutterable at the start and so then not needing the picture. but the atoms beg us on, the small things noticed do, but only a comprehensive argument can make the transcendent picture, which anyway involves any emptying of the mind enough to lose the argument and beg serenity. the—these atoms are red herrings, though, and so small as to be destroyed upon the looking out of those eyes upon them, once open. each indicator of this giant ‘will’ would seem the more massively understood in the mind of a man, who is a thing so small,

but that’s another story. it’s atomic will, it’s specification, its grand network of ‘everything-connected’ are things we human fragments cannot get all of. it is mania, dad, to think we can. that’s what mania is, and that’s what no one has ever understood, dad. that i suite efforts that seem socially nonsensical toward improving my art to beginnings not ends. one does not start with what they have concluded; if they see in my miniature baby-steps towards a testable grounds on which to rest—transcendence—as anything more than care towards an ideal these days seen as frivolously immediate—if they do not see this care—they have little idea for what nonsense is, then. this ideal of transcendence. and of so very fragile a machinery. might as well have me write them an inane, clunky, effortful end, if people are to disrespect the build of art like this that is as being a thing built out of gladness a thing though as an outline as a blueprint as breadcrumbs and not in touch with what personae lose out in the mind.

. . . . . .

and yet none of that. It is testing an hypothesis. it is, in a very un-manically comprehensive way, being a scientist—a philosopher with a dialectic—doing the work.

this impatience i have come to have with people isnt the same as one—at least, in my eyes—people have regarding the gratitude of experiencing true daemonic force. that is the manic thing, dad.

it is a manic sickness on the world, impatience, instant gratification, and is such as to make me blank out my own mind.

and i see why people would feel threatened by clear moments that are not so that is if they are alone and naked in front of society’s closed eyes. enough of a front it is, any feeling of one’s back being observed. see, i have nothing to do with entertainment, or media, or boxes. i put on clothes in front of those eyes, and wait for them to open and see me braver to see it. because that blanking-out of the tv watcher is at least readily comforting by one who has felt the pain of life, has felt observed, self-conscious, even when alone, and now gives in to the sickness of his malice at this by turning on the tv. i know this burn tenfold in the face of—others—but do not feel it when i am alone at all. peaceful solitude met me then, and now i see more that it can be so easily tainted by the sense of an unknown observer.

but that sense is the unknown observer and is a red herring that takes way more possible destruction on its hands than it readily knows. it is a curse and prison, but most people know the prison. one like myself wouldn’t know that anymore. one like myself would say, i find that the more serious threat is complacence, if we say we are in prison after all this would be the right perspective to wean; so what if i say i am building forever, so long as people who blindly and hurtfully assume i am crazy know how long they will have to wait.

give a sandcastle to the kid, have him kick it. ask him to build it as you did—that is—as with each grain of sand, and they will complain that it will take forever. but with the sands of thought, you don’t shape the sands of thought, dad. you pick up each grain. and you’re fined with boredom,

so long as another has the blackness of nothing to complain of about of it. then you’d have to listen to how much power outage occurs when a lightbulb goes on in your head. perhaps,

they will turn their back on me then. when they are—bored—of me responding to a boredom they assume i feel with them but to them pretend not to: to save

some factotum of the lord: as I have no occupation, just facts. i dont. i dont get bored. i just feel the pain of others’ boredom

with life, as pain is a causeless hurry in one place, towards the gleam of one’s chains. what exactly is the socially acceptable worry in this, if in the hereafter there are none? well, i guess, there is too much to assume that comes; especially, the idea of something coming. of course, no symbols for a build, no apparent build. but i will feel relieved, and finally be in peace to write something, then.

i understand this perspective dad.

. . . . . .

it is so that at least i will not spend my time in the efforts of anxiety towards and with bated breath the end of something masterful.

but blankness as a vacating of the brain is different from serenity, which is utterly aware.

especially for someone so diseased as i, who must remain unhappy, if i am unhappy with the thoughts in my head.

these have before and in an insanely manic way, made due with what clunkiness is there, having to relate my—fear—yet again without my control, to obnoxiously impatient people,

who receive it scratching their heads, as one coming away from a poor-logic—and then. well, i see my logic as poor in a mind.

because of this. in forcing what i know is inside myself. and such is the nature of any anxiety that is, wresting one from what is the most comfortable prospect of the future for the sake of being ‘contrarian’ to others, but—and sadly, this is my fate, dad—really in a way that involves a nearly instinctual response for something intuitive, be it socially or personally comfortable, simply because one did not trust one’s head enough—ever!—to think their intuitions more founded than any of the other useless, ‘manic’ ones.

lately, synecdoche, new york has been incubating in my mind, hence the circumscription of ‘awareness’ around itself. the brackets and narrator’s narrator—these become apparent as a similar blueprint for meaning at large. as portrayal of a multi-layered cosmos, if you will allow. ill always step on my toes, go by anagrams and signifiers—but i have the choice to carry them with me or leave them at their worth. perhaps i am more ready for this, seeing as i am sane.

Love, Dan

designstroy: Lou Brooks

Sat, 18 May 2013 20:18:23 -0400

designstroy:

Lou Brooks

Photo

Sat, 18 May 2013 20:11:56 -0400