By Richard Zenith
About half way thru. Very nicely done.
Pessoa described himself as a “secret orchestra.” Rimbaud as a piece of wood transformed by destiny into a violin.
Detective Fiction ?
Pessoa lamented the hesitation and incompletion that plagued so much of what he wrote.
In Book of Disquiet, illustrates the uncertainty principle that runs throughout his written universe.
Variations on the Invented Self. Powered by ideas rather than plot. Self multiplication.
Part 1: The Born Foreigner 1888-1905
Born June 13, 1888. A Gemini.
Saudade: word signifies intense longing, yearning, nostalgia, as state of mind, existential condition.
Tagus River, sometimes called Mar da Palha or Straw Sea.
Writing as painting: “Against the blue made pale by the green of night, the cold unevenness of the buildings on the summer horizon formed a jagged, brownish-black silhouette, vaguely haloed by a yellowed gray.” Book of Disquiet — BOD
Both parents passionately into language. Father a Music Theatre Critic side job. Defined his ancestry as a mixture of aristocrats and jews. Mother Catholic.
Restless religious curiosity. Read extensively. Including astrology.
However closely you touch me
When I pass by, always drifting,
You are to me like a dream —
In my soul your ringing is distant.
With every clang you make,
Resounding across the sky,
I feel the past farther away,
I feel nostalgia close by.
First published piece of creative prose “In The Forest of Estrangement.”
His father secure in a government job. Reading by four. Fondness for comics.
Brother born 1893, contracted TB, like his father. Fathers’s mother bouts of dementia that alternated between sullen withdrawal and exalted verbal eruptions. Father searching for a cure at sanatoriums. Father died 1893. Mother Maria forced to downsize from spacious apartment with two housekeepers and grand view of Targus. Those days were over. Brother Jorge died 1894.
Mother met Joao Rosa on streetcar, made in America, they called the Americano. He became the great love of her life. A ships captain in Navy, had sailed all over the world.
Was promoted to Port Captain. His ship called the Liberal. Campaign to subdue Mozambique rebels. Slated to become Portuguese consul in Durban South Africa.
A true and intimate disbelief
Has made the whole world a desert for me.
Bullfights at Campo Pequeno with his Uncle Cunha. Portuguese bullfights, known as the corrida, somewhat less gruesome than those in Spain. Attended concerts, opera with Aunt Maria.
From the 1920’s? “And instead of ending with my childhood, this tendency expanded in my adolescence, taking firmer root with each passing year… Today I have no personality: I have divided all my humanness among the various authors whom I’ve served as literary executor. Today I am the meeting place of a small humanity that belongs only to me.”
First heteronym Chevalier de Pas, knight and letter writer. At five or six. Knight of No ? Pas also means steps. Mother herself, diligently wrote letters to her family, constantly.
MOI: Letters for me are, and always have been, an explosive aberration. Serve as an annex or extension, to break against boundaries, crash selves even. Open my life up to both relative and the absurd as a promulgation. A place occasionally can devolve into, however taboo, lit up against what occurred to my char as a direct affront, ceaselessly repetitive limitations of reality.
Pessoa’s niece found and published some of Uncle Cunha’s letters to Fernando.
Pessoa would dress up for Carnival. Majority maternal relatives, great aunts and their husbands, lived in Lisbon. Mothers family came from Azores, an island archipelago, west of Lisbon, northwest of Morocco.Continue reading
Roll call. Every neg. That spikes the plunder. Now can pop like bubble wrap. Think of as capture. Put in columnar as artifacts that rhapsodize. Rolling with the thunder.
One foot hopper. Holiday mulct ? Every wag hog creates hampers, and cavorts with titillations in mulct that rallies with love.
Work thru the moo cow — as beauty stretching after limits. To cross into neg can assume sacred posture. As revelation.
Thralldom was a catch of fire. That love burned from. In the body.
Can become a treachery, and sufferance too. Relating to battles with the absurd and the fallen (cycle of death bunnies).
Thralldom can be about grace and its attendant insurrections. Body of the fallen, can get captured by violent sulks with the singular. Must push through push through — reactionary traumas, puzzling hurdles of structural blindness.Continue reading
Hears whistles, street long trains rains one day, again undeterred. The beam the screamers find if, any, were impeccable, to a valley and a side and a who to glue drew.
Old fears like dead gods lived cruelly underground twisting this way that way. High landers gushing flow and crow. The waters waiting in bleaksville by the door. Wanderers ponderers quanderrers. Finders leapers reepers heapers.
Dead end deepers…
Hello, who is this!!
Light. Follow the light…
Good-natured birch can supper the sour ball, and pick up a bat in grass garden — one in hand , the other in head. Devious are the lonesome…
Can exist without costing the “collector” anything?
Contrary is a fairy, and fairies are emissary. What a little bit of tenderness actually brings? Arent wings. But focus on craft?!
Feathers plucked, plucked off the tar, onebyone from slippers to desolations to ferriors to zog.
Good-natured hides concealed in horror while battling the croc o dial — and yet its greed, good nature has a greed — to believe, remains unswayed, naked as an angel.
Holes can run deep, split like tree branches tied to a “body” of very old landlord gods, way back beginning meticulous thought probs on the application of “singular truths” whose horror she rips.
Property is important. Branches are eggs. Brown is testerown and testament. Difficult to tame.
Joy as joy — and not death of the fire brigade is for the thirsty extraordinarily delicious. Whimsicality is important for giving some drydock to serioso listening at roofs, even where terror produces terrorists.
There is strangeness in it. A fluidic rummy. Writing is I know puffy and carcus starkus darkus.
Little bit of heaven is better than being out in the rose garden with malice for chalice and fishing with ear plugs, old bello ubers say in se there to give.
Astonishes works even so well as is. Pie-us addresses fragrances, helps measurement, helps blow out where riots, and especially where eats more than half, thats where its a robbery. Stairs to speak to heaven is old islamic law.
To know what hates violently, what provides arrogance, what smells stirs with goats, and birds, in trees. Sherry’s seas… stores it off. Protects the injury. Tells scary stories during sleepovers. Cuts through onions to tears, reads in the twilight. Coughs up darlings. Reveals elegance of it. Loves even as a consequence of it.
Friendly lighthouse is a rest from booty of the moody where argue with the refreshments.
To eat and be full. Grow chins. Hike along the back of mountain chains. Near kitchens, that praise the gardener.
Sent z nys res its a slirpy scan in perpetua shop talk mostly anecdotal — spinning rhyme and let in some fern — Gotta track down specific perps to send to —
I know stuck with merica drum syv way — paris review for begot ? and new yorker for churchyard ?? K ole?! and something rotton in denmark but not witjout humor to sweenies —
firsts mostly always get rejected — but o will have a rep — my writing is scavanger eerily trying to be a marksman — hungering for meta fiction
Can get names of people in journals too for k — from a lit about emailer — thats a days work — choose which peevies to send out — thats the hrd part — dark and tremblies call them — tons of those poems worthevery pop eyeon
Say embodied in trad super stitches with mephisto meta petta — the plus age — walt calories disney and whitman — let it go fat — let it be a fail pail sail scale hail bail rail — the Deck laration of let hers — word let : is in every poem its biblical at its bot — are dyniseannismatic mourners treading ice — with one liners also — bah humm bug — as flip ops jaw
godown moses — as fly fly the shake up poes in ruins bruins festoons magic into killer taboo babu breaking apart into rhyme ohhhhh and wracks the liver — sell as becktovamn Winnie pissibly mad hat franc out of airland
the ater truing to find a little shoptalk — spidergirl and hypo fizz liz meta branch for brunch shuffling rapier tapier paper fizz piss crass lass munster milly in echo wind for “good vibrations” angelicpalmysix tea and let it spread sayyes this time pen elopee says i wont pull the ball — Reckoning beckoning with its disaster as a churn of fern and bristling wayway dewydurns
Begot is gracy — meandering plugg sug 🔌 with fithy play the go go buy buy bibu lulu soft shoe comeback id — cummm bya — timer comes out of the green machine — u see jj caught me taught me how to lilt and sparky lit it kit it
I am a hole in pin wall — and frosty the meta fern etc -/ sillines at times apalls — fauk ner says liv it in i listen toim red rover red rover is an instrumental ? Yes. Looked at with a measure of resist resist tense due to lucy ball snatcher?! Who we as vous nono despise utterly!!
Novella Now Working On. Fluidic remorsers. With lots of attributionals, Beckett the absurdist shows up in accumulato phrasing as a free dusty. Joyce freedoms too, but curving toward shakespear, for that play bird build word take it to the surd family of formations. Particles go lightly mysteriously pursued. Glues against something massive and passive and stinky, awful swirls of love and death that chirp and burp their way into boat races with sweet pushes with oblivion, rugs have no mercy. Thats why they are strange miraculous so terribly interesting… Cage wage rage. Keep me alive. And then it breaks, the line breaks it breaks into skipping rhyme, all the time, I gave up and just let it fall in with verses (music the) bardic as entry into the notorious sublime. Let the language rutt cut fluff itself up, expose the wash and wear, tediously repeatiously, skins for the infinite. As cuts a hole in my throat to speak out of. Garble besides your yelly mm belly twingers. Let the for-enders out. Crisp at cross purposes… Skitters by catcher and rhy m, narrative narrative, like Rimbauds gushy flow blow, though not as loose or as pretty. Sheers for ears veer off into starkness of neg and fog pining like spells through Dante’s hells, tethered to its beams, wandering in the seams, and wring the clots out. Let it go and get a little lost there. As anywhere. Shelling horse for the love of oats. Precious oats. With this here benediction.
Va et Viens
On-going facilitated, agile, with fairly exposed pieces recognizable for stochastic and card arts. Work guarantees stimulation of the native Viking village, and sometimes pressure of abnormal faces. Inside, moon active pays.
The try fill is to plant fern, and nurture the home village, and then cover it and measure patchy sheepskin coats. So warm and rich in natural fiber.
We catch the property by deceiving a random comedy reminiscent of the classic “one-armed criminal” — we can make these FIFI for Fleur engravings, and soon it remains to wait — for the complex to reset or get said expected “spins” in the super marché, oley oley.
How to get extraordinary shakes from time to time taking colonies that are not local. An overwhelming point is the representation of a background that is remarkably mature and precise.
In factories, we can also reproduce animals – the assortment includes a tiger, a redhead or a rhino. Any of them will prey the possible in the opposite direction of potency as a spring of the double with did air oh.
To cultivate a diamond dog, supporting effectiveness of the found in foundation WE give thanks to contemporary design. Threshing thresher is more than breeding (they break “eggs” out of order to the question infection weaponize feel for fur, live and give, its climate).
What is relevant, if want to use the benefits give, and we do we do, have to eat them so that they do not fall asleep.
Love That, with a Bat
Plus, in power of tokens in combat, collect “in drag” the declarations. Concur the fucks hex cessively, packs wacks nicknack attacks, in frames of plastic stochastic, abstracts, fun hacks.
After the collage of complete collection, provide supplementary loopers and extra “windings” — pet events.
Declarations to different layers, is the much to munch. Ballast with room on moon to entangle cosmanaughtically, in dirigible of balloon, as once and again the burrowed. Every sector is a vector per mittable by science.
Significant treasure. Systems of hysteria horticulture and hypocrisy. Can create individual and the unusual. Putting the village down, dehumanizes next level unnaturally.
Will dig out another two hundred. Among the times. Multi construction pod (nod). Slander alternative epidermis lifts by contrast and participation.
Expertise is capable of furiously primitive, simple-dimensional scenery. Cartoon style, well-worn, a kind of porn, for releasing the unusual, a bug in a rug, to spot and twist where terms of the “un pun” are spun —
Declarations bloat, and hand themselves over, to free up horror, and let the pen play.
Cant keep out horror bunnies — from la lang. But could also call out as hotels//castles /- last year at marienbad is from same crane as kafkas castle. Burroughs Naked Lunch iz a horror, and so is catcher in the rye. But of course NOT ONLY — Beauty under Burroughs wail naked lunch is will to live — rioting — Hunter too — Defiant spells of fiction write in bass relef —
Shoot Outs Are Tricksters — Angling Flies versus Lies — With Purity Reachers?
Shooting way out of a Sartre drenched prisoner complex ? with Genets balls for snow —
Jim morrison il arrive in the corner dans coin — leaning over his knees — wondering if maybe I should bring in somehow someway mystics early beautiful flies please. I say yeah but its lulu — she will fly with it, up vics legs — Kafka in the Kastle sneezes, blows his nose, coughs repeatedly, go for it he says, take my breath away —
Clarice set up for lulu char, working out fine — Esp. w.r.t. Vic. Even if there is a lot of Marienbad slow dance forming at full intensities — indeed growling away underneath it — tiger tiger, can see that now —
B boys, Burroughs Beckett Bukowski, p ness envie de meathook for murderers, meaning what: The Smiths?
Ideologys purities of the defiant — from the first, threw baby out into woods ? with sherry and her windger hinge hungries whatever direction Tutters turn, not just buzzards, also flutter and worm.
Plunger drew line from shoot out to pure ideo things — as dance in sink with puri factions — all into beat and rhyme time, body skimming and slamming against it, as metal in song grabs time with its fist, and radically reorders it.
Oh the high in my 20s — when dancing tide wide searching for bona fides — while sorrow and heart blast against fault lines and indifference — And love’s sweet fall away emptying into a kiss.
When boredom means terrorized.
Will — Not to Kill
Day off from writing yesterday — by end of day wanna kill myself — Shunting the writer biter dawn day fizz even for a day now mocks death — jj says thats good thats good.
Dizziness of the soyl? bleeds with anger and suspicions, and Becketts starts a running tally of it.
Genuinely Lug #burroughs#beckett#bukowski as number runners, in hash ass sins bag with royal rimbaud — Out in the peptic septic with funnel under its pure as allure dimensions on h”uggliness of reality. The B boys register at times a tyranny for Moi — Its glue gets berry bad la haute eats it up hate simmers with disbelief.
French Drench Park Bench
French drench still — cant quite get ear to keep up — but can think in full sentences — refine sign verb at intent pronto — theres still trans lag tho gurr — Doing third screening on Marienbad — with script in lap — reading along — How nerd is that—
Cry at night for the babies — yeah must write who shows up — says heming and fitz /- tigertiger /-
Cant help jj melange thing from flight patterns à eprouver along flow bears continuum? — love u for trying, admit the sit uation as threads.
Bits and Bites
I am the marsala. Lilt tilt and built. Things not overtake able? Cheek in love? Farma a Suit a Call? Hear 0 ecology?
I dont think of other people as drugs, or even writing as a drug, I know drugs I did drugs. Experimented, a lot. Writing isnt anything like taking a drug I have ever done. Reading once or twice approached it on a hallucinatory level.
Think of writing as pulling la lang through presence that combines with distance alive in what language is.
Shakespeare has turned into a “usage” that shields MOI from fraud claims. I am a meth head. Once a meth is found to hang off a rhymer artist writer etc I litter rally slime sublime its vert you all dick ins. And row Japanese. And call it halloween. Candy. Get into my belly.
I wanted to make peace with past — not as a lie but as a loan. What was a wild fallaway into pluri party. Streams and screams of hourglass fiction/friction/contradiction. Discovering the hinge was a smart bomb, then an escalation, birth of beauty looting flute and binge, ring a round the rosey all fall down, then an unmitigettable blow out fell into hell — swamp and shell, and so on.
Legal ed helped under score love of argy bargy, nahh a little p haps — my writer hated it, KICKED IT TO THE CURB, proclaimed:::: eek (not for u).
Beauty creates enemies? Love is the sweetest enemy, in many a way, p’enemies who you dare to love? Love is an empathy for permutations of desire, its a vampire feed even, to stay alive even though you are dead, you are the undead.
Love that scorns by virtues of? strange alluring victimology, is cast as field of roses and thorns for what is lost and found by the torrent of sea sawing admissions? Hmm when did the admissions start… Get turned into a laundry line to redemption??
Byronic pen is that sacred choral shock of fiery adornments that wilderness in the wind and wtf gun for it. Thorns don’t feel like an adornment, but something stuck in skin ripping into a living death.
I love exchange because it is experimental?! And yes endlessly want to conjure present tense to make it “right side up” just a little. I am not afraid of it. Do I hate life? Of course.
How think of the Z wing kind of as a mentor. Since Seton. The word is a convenience. Thats all. Shine is now located IN THE WORK. Thanks in large part to exchange.
No reason to hate me for it?
Set square is what I am trying to do — with Holy Fern. If can calm down and let it have some reality, mutually agreed upon way. I think it will be great.
Not dull at all.
Pure, present — miss and take, press.
Beckett discussions of the mis place meant thing.
Beckett doesnt actually miss. But traces around it like with chalk on a body that is still moving, Beckett gives me a back and forthy internalized, better for me than Diderot, OK? SM gives me channels to airs that are unsparing. Vous Lou gives me math and academic and dog latin spaces to work in by ways of Ur own. Also, for instance: impassioned blunt and sometimes infuriating. (Which I sometimes have to apologize for. Tho YOU KNOW Haute loves it.) Red gives me immunity and can go raunchy and treats love as oxygen. I JUST TAKE IT, now. I guess. Treat as “red meat.” Or hugging the red line.
Dissoluble and density? Hmm.
I have no desire to curtail. Conquassate at anti podals chance of the rose romantic up a sleeve for a weave. I am a necessity to write. I am screams in the night.
Burns once wrote a poem on a window, it may still exist.
So YES I am grapefruit.
Up Wittgensteins ladder to yes, yes to weave yes to milligrams out of car tar yes to hair bears shares yes to whatever the snares yes.
So it would seem.
It is propulsive.
Desk work hounds the cash for groceries. So I can eat what doesnt kill me.
Neg pug slug grants my clap to a trap — en française to catch is attraper.
To a swell of freedom — form wise often plows along pecking at the ground, overhead schisms of reckless and the feckless — due to “glorious grotesque” preponderance of surface drift.
Am I in the quay? Asks quota baste stirs.
My gob is to rapture capture schisms prisms reflexes, complete onto introit trafficator — folds bold mold into liquefaction. No denying that lies at its essence. Nin pin and spin.
As virtue of seaward.
We are nectar.
You are a person not a personification.
I molt words of birds blithe and rife and tithe, in weld of tidal mores.
Sure. And love for it. Sure.
To emerge in any way I may at all, from the Great American Darkness. From its madness wards and perpetual wilderness east and west of violence.
Rereading the Tractucus
Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus Available from Gutenberg Archive.
First time read Wittgensteins Tractatus I loved it. I tend to read philosophy as a part of language studies. I remember it as this strange wonderful wavefront on the magnificence of propositional logicalizing in a perfectly formal attitude (itemized like Euclid).
Thought what a smashing exuberance (it is exuberant, kind of reminded me of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road in that way). Charged with tracking, as he delineates/decimalizes, the proposition of a logical system, that declares itself based on “fact,” as opposed to things.
Cutty Sarcus, I am thinking, with that dog latin title?! Latin comic is he being? No yes maybe.
It is a fun read — if you are into language and concepts about thought, it is beautifully written. And approached in a manner looking to simplify. I read in a headlong gulp — watching him track through propositional language, something that can be itemized but cannot be caught — except as defined by itself.
Its kind of like a treatise on what is and is not a pipe, while discussing an enumeration of metaphysical values and logical forms. Heavy as water soaked in silk.
Yes — it is positing itself as a theory of everything. “1. The world is everything that is the case.”
And relates back to identifying statements of proof — but with respect to pictures of facts. “2.1 We make ourselves pictures of facts.”
And then goes on to discuss how thoughts (including science and math) can be expressed through propositional elements. “4.01 The proposition is a picture of reality.”
FAMOUS QUOTES FROM
“5.6 The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.”
“5.621 The world and life are one.”
“5.63 I am my world. (The microcosm.)”
“6.44 Not how the world is, is the mystical, but that it is.”
“6.522 There is indeed the inexpressible. This shows itself; it is the mystical.”
VERY FAMOUS QUOTE FROM
“6.54 My propositions are elucidatory in this way: he who understands me finally recognizes them as senseless, when he has climbed out through them, on them, over them. (He must throw away the ladder, after he has climbed up on it.) He must surmount these propositions; then he sees the world rightly.”
So you see he is Cutty Sarcus the latin comic, of a sort. With an introduction by Bertrand Russell, say no more.
Project Gutenberg’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, by Ludwig Wittgenstein; Title: Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus; Author: Ludwig Wittgenstein; Contributor: Bertrand Russell; Translator: C. K. Ogden; Original Language: German
Presently reading, and starting to take some notes.
The Trouble with Being Born
Time was becoming unstuck from being.
Carried away by irresistible desire to proclaim.
Long to be free — desperately free.
Forget to be born.
When we have worn out the interest we once took in death…we fall back on birth, we turn to a much more inexhaustible abyss.
ME: Death was FELT as an inherent charm, employed by my fancy as a fugitive doorway to freedom. Everywhere else was proscribed. Considered by startling pliancy of my imagination as basically a killer, as bordering on evil. Why my menace was born — began to howl for space to think, to overthink, languor, moon, thrum shrill murk mourn, for a place that could not be proscribed by body and limits of time, a freedom for reverie that could withstand its own consciousness.
As we say in French, j’ai mal.
Crept out of somewhere.
Tendencies toward an inner quest. Set failure above any success — permits us to see ourselves as God sees us —
Two kinds of mind: daylight and nocturnal.
ME: A little night music.
Mystery and inconsequentiality — between the pyramids and the morgue.
If attachment is an evil —
If a monk became proud of a task was to forsake it.
ME: I got caught up in a chain of belief, where if I did it well, suddenly — and were then to become proud of it, I was bound to fail — loose connection to indescribable what, of that moment, of sudden awareness that created it. The sirens attaching to this belief — at end of day, were part of that thing that caused me to freak after any success. Distrusted pride as an enemy to consciousness. But in fact there is also its opposite, that I can bring myself to trust it — if willing to investigate if willing to be vigilant. Fully accept its materialization as a point of context and part of MY continuity. Tho some early successes were so sudden and sweet, they seemed to come out of nowhere, there was no context I could give to it, except that, on an off chance, I wrote something that was in deed incantatory — and my hungry pride of menaces had not spoiled it.
Heights of Despair
All kinds of insights would blend and flourish in a fertile effervescence.
ME: AKA miracle mush, to my agents of the valiant “brooding woody.” Who I marry with the cryptic — with language as la chute, as it is slippery — a freedom I proclaimed for myself to compose to.
Standing up for myself, expressing gratitude and strength — all about eve creations.
Yall in strange wonderful way give us ins and give us outs. Continuity is a kind of revolving grace — Doesn’t stand still, but moves around.
Gave me back my past not merely as a transformational beauty thing, that over time became entrenched in a sea of curious delusion and trauma — But NOW, has been transformed again into: determination, discipline, commitment, and a new kind of self-possession. As it is. As it was. As I am. With a place in my heart for all who sod there.
Working up some new selfies:
How the pirate preys on herself.
Making Peace vs. Keeping Peace
That what is “Magic Spread” of evil in the good. A discussion with Percy Shelley:
- (1810) Zastrozzi
- (1810) Original Poetry by Victor and Cazire (collaboration with Elizabeth Shelley)
- (1810) Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson: Being Poems Found Amongst the Papers of That Noted Female Who Attempted the Life of the King in 1786
- (1810) St. Irvyne; or, The Rosicrucian (published 1811)
- (1812) The Devil’s Walk: A Ballad
- (1813) Queen Mab: A Philosophical Poem
- (1815) Alastor, or The Spirit of Solitude (Published 1816)
- (1816) Mont Blanc
- (1816) On Death
- (1817) Hymn to Intellectual Beauty (text)
- (1817) Laon and Cythna; or, The Revolution of the Golden City: A Vision of the Nineteenth Century (published 1818)
- (1818) The Revolt of Islam, A Poem, in Twelve Cantos
- (1818) Ozymandias (text)
- (1818) Rosalind and Helen: A Modern Eclogue (published in 1819)
- (1818) Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills, October 1818
- (1819) The Cenci, A Tragedy, in Five Acts
- (1819) Ode to the West Wind (text)
- (1819) The Mask of Anarchy (published 1832)
- (1819) England in 1819
- (1819) Julian and Maddalo: A Conversation
- (1820) Peter Bell the Third (published in 1839)
- (1820) Prometheus Unbound, A Lyrical Drama, in Four Acts
- (1820) To a Skylark
- (1820) The Cloud
- (1820) The Sensitive Plant
- (1820) Oedipus Tyrannus; Or, Swellfoot The Tyrant: A Tragedy in Two Acts
- (1820) The Witch of Atlas (published in 1824)
- (1821) Adonais
- (1821) Epipsychidion
- (1822) Hellas, A Lyrical Drama
- (1822) The Triumph of Life (unfinished, published in 1824)
Short prose works
- “The Assassins, A Fragment of a Romance” (1814)
- “The Coliseum, A Fragment” (1817)
- “The Elysian Fields: A Lucianic Fragment” (1818)
- “Una Favola (A Fable)” (1819, originally in Italian)
- The Necessity of Atheism (with T. J. Hogg) (1811)
- Poetical Essay on the Existing State of Things (1811)
- An Address, to the Irish People (1812)
- Declaration of Rights (1812)
- A Letter to Lord Ellenborough (1812)
- A Vindication of Natural Diet (1813)
- A Refutation of Deism (1814)
- Speculations on Metaphysics (1814)
- On the Vegetable System of Diet (1814–1815; published 1929)
- On a Future State (1815)
- On The Punishment of Death (1815)
- Speculations on Morals (1817)
- On Christianity (incomplete, 1817; published 1859)
- On Love (1818)
- On the Literature, the Arts and the Manners of the Athenians (1818)
- On The Symposium, or Preface to The Banquet Of Plato (1818)
- On Frankenstein (1818; published in 1832)
- On Life (1819)
- A Philosophical View of Reform (1819–20, first published 1920)
- A Defence of Poetry (1821, published 1840)
* Zill: one of a pair of small metallic cymbals worn on the thumb and middle finger; used in belly dancing in rhythm with the dance
Literature is a habitat for me now, a breathing organism. Tho one of oceanic starkness and darkness still, it has come to assume again a threshold of immanence — A decorum of intimacy, that puts ear to sluice of page, like Fitz and Zelda, Proust and his mum, or young Baudelaire riding his elephant.
To infest invest behest with rapport and gesture of a stir prizing fluency — as a precocity of endless love and abiding f’wend ship.
Its incumbrance and stealth, visits upon me now, as something of a shared bagpipe — Hi calls the bringingness of thingness — Constance has become less leery of carriers and more hut hatched.
Outright now interleaves as an ambit of my living for its fiction, theoretically cunning punning yes even in receipt of the stunning, and by virtue of that:
Hexceptional, in re milieu intérieur vis a vis its hyperreality — as to say — a sort of magic realism.
And So On
Pur tin netly, not so much hexperienced, fois moi, as obligation — but as shared intensities that are open schema to subjoin, and so to hexplore, luxuriate in, alas ductus arteriosus, with literati digerati, where crop dusts the void.
Yes as if alighting on, to fair mind with, out “at limits” of pure persistence, where can attend / attend to, track out and trace after: priorities pylon.
Mahhhhvelous way for dealing with baudriardisms re the “obscene” scheme and sheen of simulacra and simulation, and as a working macrocosm, in league with media ophedia.
Metaphorically — porn suborn folorn through the air with as cavalry — aka: skull of Adam.
Calvary is the anglicized form of latin, for referring to Golgotha, Greek Κρανίον, Hebrew gulgōleṯ for “skull” (גולגולת). In reference to —
- Place of skulls, where Christ and others were executed. Or,
- In association with the “skull of Adam” —
- As chronicled in Conflict of Adam and Eve with Satan, Cave of Treasures.
- That one Shem and another Melchizedek traveled to the resting place of Noah’s Ark, retrieved the body of Adam from it, and were led by Angels to Golgotha –
- Described as a skull-shaped hill at the centre of the Earth, where also the serpent’s head had been crushed following the Fall of Man.
Goal of expository nature is to get me in trough with the angels I like to say. Write in rain with certain authors Becks Burroughs — Rimbauds complicity with simplicity, not really Hemmingways. Naked Lunch Break cycles through the Incendiary with Zenus, and then stacks a list of liberatory contentionalisms at bottom to compel the insistance resistance. Its manic but hinged. It has flow thru.
But Sendy Wendy, as I call her, pees with Zelda out back of the boat. No use sending letter if it doesnt say anything darling, she gleams at me. Also, there is a blatant cluelessness to my teleological bravado. Too busy having drinks with Zelda and Zenus in the measuring room at the madhouse. Along with Lucia Joyce. Whom with we do bat eyes at the Beckett.
Base tho of face — rhymers, I never let go of rhymers. They give me time beat and something fundamentally unadulterated — way way diff from cultural and philo thinkers yet not incognizant — who like them I read too — but writing is fastened to airs.
Marm is all poetry in a way. It uses la lang through complete usurpation digestibles. Raids historicities, and kite flying — boards them, manipulating at what nests up against surface, lets the pig conspire with the wire. Its the most beautiful immanence — immanence is what they call it, in philosophy — the door just beyond the opening.
Of all the things in my life write now brings me the most horse, hexchange of archamedic spring things. Dates wells before alchemy.
Havent figured out how do any of that — out in front of myself, as comes so timely to them — thus and so, had to find another way in — directly through la lang. Which was always there, from the first in fact. But multiples exploded with impossible desire and a terror so deeply stuffed down my throat by sanctimonious moms killed me off every time.
Sublime views on religion — can destroy finding things, finding those things that give MEANS to the mind. Childhood was strangely all in black hood, I mean fucking all of it. Hysterical laughter, the dram lamb damned, and time chained to a never ending intensity of its own wretched disquietude, roving languid agog, ear to every death, only to get in and out of the chicken coop of my skin. Touching as an angel does every sin, in the inquietude of my cunt.
I love gold fish who jump out of bowl to meet the wind. Writing cares deeply about it! Minds its every detail, poets who dig into song, are the most accessible, tho I also love exploratory theorists and narrative madhatters. That changchang with la lang bang. Love how Beckett chops up French, love how Joyce devours and excretes underground foistables — particles carefully minced and sliced, and sewn together at hypnotic intervals. Consider it a beachhead of my writing. Am completely devoted to its freedoms, its hex cesses, hexemptions, hextensions, and to some extent even pedagogy.
Its worth it, gives bees room to buzz — otherwise my sacred gest here gets stuck in the wailing wall. Oh mailboxes, how I need them. Just like Fitzgerald needed them. Trying to make the wall my friend??? But it crushes against skin and efforts get smothered by it, by the vastness and grandness of its burning lies. Walls fill me out with blasphemy of truth as welts up against bitterness of holy skin. Holy skin is bitter from lifes hardness and creates standards beyond the pale. Its that terror and bitter range of heavenly prophecy that lives in the wall and disdains and disdains. I want to take an adze to it, always have — and bash it in.
But no no no FALL IN. Grow prickly flowers instead? Feed the coyote and worm.
Hunger is a very old bribe from gods to awaken one to the solicitudes of death, and the values of rectitude? That everything we eat sacrifices itself to our hexistance is a very old beef indeed. Resurrection comes from the stomach first. As a concept — except then one lets it be highjacked, with spirit as food. I didnt think of spirit hijacking as cannibalism of the heart, until beauty blazing as a dram for blood poured right out of me, and then dyna, so tricky with knives, sent it flying —
Once, for once in my life caught one back at me. Right in thuh kisser. Blew up my lips. First time ever made love to anybody in that way — as exchange of blood, ichor, fluxion, functional genomics. Changed the way began to think about everything. But unfortunately, all the way up and down the line, otherwise — the madhatters had already pitched tents lively. Eating my thwart and bitter wings for breakfast. Seems like all that was left, was limb and skin, after the madhatters bottled me in, like fire in water.
Bunch of inter nits, can hear a little something of Becketts clip. Tho hair is swirly, flirts a bit like listening to radiodial buzzing in and out of station location. Title Penisneid Vorbai means: penis envy that potty my past — thinking could be good for title if were to be picked up by Lacan Ink or Perfume.
Prince of Darkness and Prince of Peace turn up, tableau, with the Jay Suss Monster. His right and left hands. Direct and oblique.
To the third leg, he commands, it sings. Ahoy six toys — then, then it begins to lose syllable cohesion, at dangle of dip, heels to rhyme — meta morph, pose, blossom and flay slay way?
Obey. Shine a ray, sky pie die day. Pie is a penis squatter.
Tomb with a view :
Slabs glint, bloody pink and green — make a dark crusted purple. Rocks sparkling seaweed flattened slippery when wet.
Ocean longshore rockhounding.
Squints at sun and sound of water, pushing his hair long in front to the side.
Heavy soled boots. Thick socks. Scoops pebbles, shells, flicks at thick fuzz on rock — Weedy strings of plastic ooze up to his nose and smells its crucible.
A fleet in his cacophony — of cursed while adoration — the aggrandizing comes in bombs —
Telling. Sick sunny, sweet tart thwart, not another mooning parker — get off. Snuff of your bas relief. A bird swallows. Sex rises to the death.
A slide :
Then slides into. A naked picnic with the painter?
How he got their bodies to discard robes, after set out cameras. FILM? the whole afternoon N to the number, hard wok slap and tickle oozers — gathering the gobble gobble into fuck happy foam — loop a duck encounter group —
Cut. All pairings are now on tape. Every taped explosion of cum is a son of ram. The golem golden night flies nozzle slam.
Let the frozen be doomed.
Echo 1 Echo 1. Joins Jay Suss nectar, fingers at bowl calmly, down her throat. The emptiness echos hard and horror, and wipes her chin.
Straighten up. Walk out of bathroom.
Ensues fancy chancy composte columns three in a row for clues, hands to shoulders, ass up against fluting, pushing a way round.
Invested in a cluster of barbed mar plot — holy Angela’s precious sell lucid. Explain yourself :
Free writing is taunting bunkering banditry. Slope and slime. Reaps sublime — color of whipped cream goes green? Slips in slips out — All demons are dismal abyssal, fizzy and cart. Sets off Nash-ing, what’s more? ensembles. Enemies die a thousand squabbles. Arguing like preachers corners — Finger pointing up :
Lark lark : the holy heart. Illiquation, eliquation, sozzle and eluviate. La lang tangs phases crises stolen priceless. Liquid.
Scale it up. Cosmo.
Slung like holsters across bottleneck sky, hung and fly. Diderot pulls up his sox. Stuck on floating microgrid sun boat. Working down in hull. A bottle king: thickners, putties, dilutants.
Tidy bow tidy bow, sweeping cross like love at a crossroad. Echo 1. Miller time.
Everything is a voyage to somebody.
Not fight that. Let la lang bang be shared. Sill fill till the tank. Woo my cacophony — let them in, let beauty in and the snake will lure —
Urgency for beauty mysteriously buries mine in cantankerous love / lore. Its emptiness becomes just another loophole searching for a love for it.
But: Yellowbird shows up too. Yellowbird sees things — through shields of mercy. And gets sick again, poison lands and fills —
Scorches the little village of the damned — The blindness — stuck in stone? slave to mystery’s altar? Its alive its alive — Evokes a loopy sundial. Puppets at times : show no mercy. Sift through guts, gathering nuts.
A campy crush clinging for mercy? Survive survive.
Allow the abstract. Blowsy crusty terrified — Morbid stretches pushing out into breathlessness. Letting fires in living room in flate, mast u bait. Identity card says employed by Kastle —
Because freedom is slippery — floats across, rifts in sky, as an Indian dance calling on gods. Poison is brutal and defiant. Misreason churns up from the emptiness staging false denials.
Prettify poison, will you marry it, again?
Everything is a voyage to somebody.
Swallows the Lid
Writing swallows it rigid — searching for veins, soul in lust to forage a trust, hind legs float and kick, up against its glorious marginalia. Denotes a luxurious eeriness — rueful plaintive restive intractable.
And then throws over the food bowl again? I me mine.
Foot and shoot. Makes it dance. Where had peace at last had peace at last —
Naked ruse my mysterious ruins — reconstructing miracle — Kindness still feels like a miracle, anytime lets love give in. Where creed breeds, lurks, stakes through the driven.
Letting la lang go bang-bang — sharing the inferno in ear as eats my heart with mutiny on bounty and corn thorn sworn eye passage raving and porn forlorn, often think these soaring mirror frantic outpourings, reveal a blatant treachery, for sending hunter into orbits. The medicine man routine — say they — puts into motion with joy ride over bones of cravens. Factory ob and sols cessed with irony, pathos, diligence — what else — flames up shafts like an elevator.
Beauty scarfs wind as sweeps through — pockets bills, gets killed. Death crawls down my back. Alligator enters water. Hunting for her wrap.
Water ways beget the fizzy and the dizzy — rhyme crime, fuse muse drizzly — chew the chewy — banks of mystery, of language, let volt and molt, poches pleine — poached in vain, falls into headbanging. Poison bird. That was the thing. Poison is greedy. Pulleys are fascinated by length of rope, birds grow craven from the roving hopelessness, up against stagings ill fill kill will sill hill and sexuated with death, beauty and hell sits overseeing heartbreaking fits.
Poison reckons. Floating ill fill sill through gills where coffee and lube. Romancing cabbage rosa constance and the gertrude jekyll. Light and square grow flimsy, cloudy. Dims as skim at rim. Nothing is ALL that belongs to me. Beauty screams I am on a break.
Sudden Marcel memory — used to twirl baton in basement. Front driveway — any good? Could twirl, is about it. Body was always plagued with enemy. Days and ways, sunk into bends of chalice, forming pearls, unbundling a wealth of death.
Mind became baton. Mind became everything. Slugs were lambent, subreptions indulging beanie in all sorts spice dice churching with Vincent mice — mad murderous bereft — baby phantasia sizzling in mist of its wild emptiness, objects of mind stuffed to the fish with.
La Lang Fang
Refused at first for it to suffer language? Yes. Later found in American Indian philosophy, subliterate visual nectars “identity” with language? not viewed as same or even close.
Baby phantasia more powerful than my pleasure. Couldnt limit taking it out on the baton. Fascinations never ceased. Days and days of rote learning.
Flatness crept in, horrified. Boredom is an anger pouring down on by infernal weights —
Body of hate lures me away lures me away, with sweet ruthless beautiful death rants, morbid pasta finds its crank, its ugliness is a drama, but petrified and prettified via flashes of hysteria — magic for the damned.
Worms turn, into tenses and genders, birds loom bloom, and fence, steals through a snag in the wag, la lang goes bang. The wick it, sings. T. Mann sniffs cunt. Secretly signs sentry form, to stash the cache with Spain Das Schloss (fragments, deletions, notes). While rhymes pop and pelt — belet format philosophers cosmic felt.
But only exchange — gives true pleasure. Cause: knows is doing for its own reason for being and includes the other as windfallen and galvanomagnetic, conjoined in a body count of time. Not just skulling with lures of the dead.
Ostensible pleasure — of the foam alone — riven to a raving darkness, heart stolen by languor bleeding sacrificial medieval weevils, revelations born to rapture, merciless, arisen, wired to ancient looms and tombs. Shrinks from exposure. Yellowbird absconds with want of something anywhere serene ensconced illuminated.
As if big leafs fanning pools of beauty can guard from spells, lifes reckless charms, compulsions, bullets bombshells.
I hate guards. Have so many guards. Sluicy Lucy, up from desert hell. Where girls are hidden. There is a hiding thing that comes at me from religion. From every direction.
Breakers breakers. Coming thru.
Permission to soup outside the coup. Stitch in time, cat stitch entwine, syllables slip thru fog. Permission is jailbirds sigh. (Another shooting just down street, hit three bystanders — These guns will start a war of misreason.)
Beckett alerts. You have been reduced to a kling-on. Yes but thats all they see. Is poison and kling-on. Thats all they see. Must reduce my vocabulary to treason. Due to misreason.
Next up : How Beckett strings out visitations from certain hats — he is forced to live with.
In wheel chair of faith keeps on pushing me, yells tells to eat these leaves coo lure toujours. Fight back. The fight club thing.
The fighting thing. What are you fighting?
No idea. Wing span. Beak plucks under feathers. Cutters scratch till bleed. When flatness flooded throat with anger and alarm syllables began to scream. Day was evil in a way that was all turned around.
Gloated over. Assumptions medieval.
Violence imposes the horror of cunt with clockwork blue and orange, cunt feeds on its terror, and mutates into leather. Smell my finger, sifty nifty lifty, sin-i-calls gather into a sulk —
I have come to a conclusion. Penises have souls. And cunt flows with beauty’s exponentials, counts mounts fears as eye of threshold.
Syllables showed up. Just syllables. Ducal saturations rolling in, off the bardic —
Chunks of whirring syllables. Are sometimes called a void? Or out of the void? I dont concede — either. Anger stupefied with busywork and bromide erupted, and still sits here bleeding syllables.
Cynical, my sins, and febrile rows, with bating breath and kissing lashes, flash and crash (and diaper rash). Voyages take on sudden holy asserted corruptions of virtue, then double down — and (ever excitable) flood and drown in visions rangy and merciless.
How rage lures license into rebellion, arisen from the absurd. Absurd became body of god.
Stowaways show up, again and again — for little miracles — for everyday swabs.
Light flight, so wretched bright — hellevated to blight, floating coffins, endless nights with Victim V, blood of Lucifer — Ahhhhhh but ludibrous hikes over with the unnamed — shows up as alligator hunter in sewer tracking the big one — valiant / victims for V — V is stolen to set it free.
Pastiche goes up against Philosophy and two step turns — serious. JJ is serious / not serious. Beckett too of course. Music books occasionally movies provide rain dance — head explodes in cunt and stomach both — as mind of body mourns living and dead.
Know heads bound to get stuck again, maniacal about poison, a dwarf wretched point, that just-is clobbers — part of me is cave woman tending fire — who knows fur gives every violence.
Pig Wig Dig Farm
Yellow bird goes looking for stick?
No thats not yellowbird, thats dog-and-cat — I get mocked for using animals as char but its doodly — can doodle with animal tar — bods of gods cryptid glorification — spirit of animal, carries soul of irony symbolic coincidence, calls up prehistory hall of disguises, casts a raw intimacy the confabulot forward.
Cats dont eat birds just kill them? Yellowbird does not die. Death tremors share wealth let horse and carriage in the house.
The would be could be / stuck on that. Pessoa stalks my playground exculpating dreams. Hexchange with King Henry, hippopotamus amphibius, aka river horse, angel big heart, always about reach —
Certain stuff arrives so hot. Must stop stop stop. Looking for a reason that loves — the whole lot.
Tinker belle will you think. Yelllowbird lightens, brightens, cools down takes a bath —
Cat is also asleep at wheel. Part of me is alseep at wheel right now.
Schmoozing with phrase, la cervellle liquéfiée — third eye is a wall eye nailed open trembling with desire — descends into wide eyed wooly hysterics, hillbillies and tyrants, the blood of bejesus walking around miracle wound, wanderers around the around bound where found crossing with its currents, chewing on dog ears for tears for fears. Oil and coil.
Love lets it coil for oil — not just burn alive where fire catches at thatches.
Poison is hallowed with hells sweet and sorry fallen and fury, beautiful medieval gorge — Stream men demons hell painters As A (church window) Annexation, all bodies are raped by the mouth — as food chain, carnage mixes in throat of unholy desire. Comes thru as sacred, sacred part of The Will. Journey believed sacred, through all veils hails and hoods — beauty and hell stuck dancing with Dante’s doubles. Heaven is beauty but impossible, hell is purgatory forever waiting or fucking up. Sky abandons body for belief.
Pastiche now driven thru all that with help of a team of oxen — to include sex workers at the Kastle, coyotes are allowed to steal eyes in quest for food, laughing Jesus up on wire satirizes the holy gruesome — And all resurrections are renewable.
To be able to use switches on a sentence level. Put wolf up to a smell. Wake up wake up from latest yellowbird drama.
Call heft fur? Ripples again and again, hot and cold — Back and forth the livery slips, vending venging angels — Make her empty, make her flat — Destroy all that. The rush and brush of poison against my fur —
Ears for years. I will go to my death with a kiss for it, for the feast of fishes. Marm gears heart charms. I know my courage is like the sound of armpit gooseberry. Salients consider something of a poison? half and halfs like me. For mine, this half: has to make room for: that other half. Its not a choice. Its a survival mechanism.
Tho here among vous I traffic and lorry, roses grow in a Church-in-the-Bowery, with Bees, where fiendship Blooms. No prob courage, ears their seers. Think of it differently re theirs. Its not out in oceanic drowning in the empty? But undaunted. Helps me find that thing in me, of a horded wealth.
Eyes spy fly as vehicle of carte blanche, magnifier leeway (from Sartre). Its treasure for me. CountTess chooses to stand by. Because it just happened that way because it just happened that way. Was something I could actually do. Gives thoughts to ways can flourish in the innumerable. Open ness of line for colluding with rhyme, rabbit on, and range, coughing into my make / shift coffin. Coffin is pastiche.
There is a really serious side to Pastiche I more and more ADORE. Adoration of the tenebrae (means darkness), of the magical nature of “thought” in its web of beautiful lies and urgency for truth, tis inherited from la lang bang. I use it for things that perforce transpositions of meaning in a nutshell. Where shine suddenly flames up in a swoosh and I sigh, deeply, but without torment.
Can call a Cradle, yeah Cradle of Doom. Pastiche. Happiness is seeing mention of death “vehicles” as Pastiche. Over the sacred. Much as I see detective stories as Pastiche.
ailment evil mystics last fire
Am moving on from pure poison. Amy Zyon put her foot down. Cross heart hope to die. Not going back. NOT GOING BACK TO THAT. Pure poison is lost in its own fire. Not that I am going to stop the fire. Can still get knocked over with a feather as they say. Or from sudden unexpected touch on a wound that has a lot of scab over it, and that I just jumped with numina lumina, naming sessions with cobs, you webs —
But even if lapse its not a lapse. Was just making a decision, a little backwards. That “pure” poison thing, not doing it again. Too dangerous, too fucking dangerous.
Love has no singular imputation here any more, nor attribution, definition, etc. Nor does Beauty. Beauty especially I use as “that thing,” that presses its way into me, for staying alive here. Like Sun through a Magnifier.
Dont see mystic as evil. But as evolutionary. An important part for me, early on discovery, objects of mind. There are things about mystical overtones that still shimmer as a restive breeze, perhaps arrived with reading Rimbaud and then metered out by Pessoa in his scenics. Up against Chandlers is Pessoa. Find that a musing. But action at distance stuff, have to be careful about. Mystic innuendo is palpable, shimmers too with immersion. And not without the meaningful anecodotal. Call it: Stem cells from heaven.
Seriously ham is at peace with my past now in a general way. And without turning — just accepting, thats all. Erin gro bra. Can view now as golden showers and all. And there is stuff “in” there, about “being hit,” “falling into it,” “breaking into factions,” “hell and the aching beautiful”, etc. which remain intriguing (however expensive they were), can see “thru” now as “pure” cabbage too. While letting the heart twee again, pastiche and spatiate.
Sweets for sweetie. Peace draws joy. Destroyed statuary — without harsh debts. Erin is an occasional. Occasional are theme driven prints. Didn’t — do any take backs. But revolutionized? Erin is fine as Larry.
Theater. everywhere leashes and traffic. Traffic… Hi knows that. Why won’t give up on respect part. This girls, sultanna. Wont. Dont turn, even Z now, not turning. Trying hacktually carefully hash out. Poetry Books are laced in poison.
Courage. Armpit. Halfer. Yeah fa la la. See is different route because I had to figure out why madness was stuck out in nashville ? Worked it out with Nash and Lowell too. God loves the cemetery. But now is truly different, a lot different. Still cautious as hell. A lot has to do with Sendy Wendy.
ailments evil, feels here more like a trusty dog in a way anymore, goes off into the endless — doesn’t let go — not master slave tho, more just backyard with the pack, over by rimbauds cottage, sees as elements of fury beauty curiosity and also compilational blood of Poe in Lub, this that then hall ways —
evil mystic sited as assassin bug carrying dead, year over year. Or Marley. I see as a grace that entered into inquiry but then madness and the fury of horror stole it, like a biblical flood.
the enemy. screams redouble shivering shimmering. the enemy is a delusion of my conscious? the sinister illuminated. la lang bang heightens as gangs of evil doers in hanger with anger, and enemy enemy repetitions. bit shocking.
Peace relieves the mess of its burdens, and especially burden of executioners.
Death music. Fatalites. This is the section. flash horizons. Mummers loot. Death arises. As la lang bang nectar of terror caress fears into beauty. Fucking flowerpot. Or cotton bag flauberts Philomena curse.
Denials, denails. Porter la portage. Swing from swing the holy circus — say do then dont. say want then won’t. its a battleground of fascination mid flame outs into fear. Somewhat due to Ripperology. Circus is about horror in some ways, girlie shows and feats of acrobats.
Murderous realms but sacred formulae. Weapons ordinance artillery.
Anguish girls thousand uncles. Yes thank you!!!! Helped pull me up from destruct-o blocks deadly with poison piñata. Moved from Mexico to Paris with humph. Free. Isle de Cite.
It is love too even tho reason able. Collect reasons for love. Take oppo tack. Opposites make opportunity. OHH. Z does that.
unsafe invasive syncope terms. but agreements never sealed, never signed. variously alluded to. friendship is dear. signs do arrive and are taken as meaningful. Rigid abyss had let to bleed out but evil markers can assert vehicles. disturbing voices have strange residual power.
Torture must be justice language? Rifles are valued. Never see things that are bloody as trash anymore. Used to see everything as trash. Poison loves trash. Shakespeares radiates with fairy business, brewers phrase and fable marks Shakespeare usages, interesting. Bloom says Shakespeare sees fairy usage as part of explanations (now derided) for love madness, and (historically my lang bang wise) find some sense in that.
Admiration isn’t wild any more, its become relatively forthright. Though poison did protect it too. Poison was big here about protecting grace structures??? And yet hates happiness phrases? No mine hated acceptance phrases. Had rejectiohary squabbles with puritanical scumquats. Now let the living lie attached in some way to sensitivity of letting la lang bang connections thread the needle, excess surpassing limits of madness, etc.
Delays also have to do with operational, its skunk works related. That and wants what one wants and thats what on wants, and continues to battle with it. Had a hard time getting a handle around the intensity of poaching for eggs (with the living not so much with the dead).
Dense but light. Sucky sorrow. Chatting to the ignorant. Ignorant of? Doesn’t say.
Desolate, all sorts, but not desolate enough to keep amused, stuck in cattle market now, rotting. Sleep sleep, perplexed. Clock is never good enough, urge for something down to earth — More powerful, of course, more powerful than subliterate corner letter from pants hungover drunk. Lovingly writes.
Attack — is what is generally true. Not always, but generally. Mode is to attack. No returns for shipwrecks? Picked up that char and kept it. Adoration is uncertainty? Interesting. I still adore but place it outside of shine, mostly, to protect from sudden fascination with extensions that come alive there. Distance creates room to explore abstractions and methods, its effervescence got so big swallowed me. But dementia came from having bouts with multiples in flashes of disorder with nothing overhead but the naked eye. Thrilled me killed me. Focus turned hungry and wild. Had to figure a way around, and that meant for some reason going straight thru it. All dice slice and mice. Just became thrice because thats who knew about it. And the hex change of provocation is intoxicating but alas, at least it is workable.
Violence not an exercise. But is from feeling of being under attack. Impudence doesn’t imagine it as delicious, but resorted to creating beauty out of hell, in order to figure out a way to live through it. Vicissitudes create delirium. Delirium can be made useful. Rhetoric can assign breathing space to via char, and hang out with Shakespeare comparing “campaigns.”
Yes expansions arrive without constraint. But thats rhetorical too. Just fessing around here now to see what’s there. Which can see as pastiche, whereas before could not.
More TK. So many things to think about. Love cuts, what a blast.
Everyone saying its going to be awful. The ogler is poisonous. Its been freed. Its been freed. Though I don’t actually think that. Poison is jealousy, is forbidden fruit. The backlash. Devilish mean, a torrent of noble fuscia. And fear. God awful fear. Fear that makes no sense.
Think my writing is derivative and occasionally breaks out somewhere on its own, but also gets captured by “usual suspects” — dilemmas of rhetorical explosion the snidely whiplash calls : my virtuous corruption.
11 rooms? Yes and a gun is going to walk through the door. And she is going to make love to the gun and the killer.
Mary Contrary that old thing —
Is there poison in the air? being forced on me???? Its worry and cherish. Cherish is the word. Love liquids. Sex toys? MMMMM. Sexuation and blood excrement and holiness. Babies and death. I cherish things I shouldn’t. Especially anything related to my work from those who put up with my stealing squealing and feeling for la lang bang. Things get set off by coffee. Cherish that? Yes. But then turns into squabble merciless quiet squabbles screaming at the rubber band, the sling back to delusions of mocking dormants attacking throats of caution and these small, vaporous tales of venture viability and my senseless defiance. Which at least that, that they do understand? Those folds are not just mine. Or is it just how I justify bad behavior.
Seeing beyond threshold of what — mm solids, solitudes. Where there is no scenery. Walls inside walls outisde. Nothing nowhere. Nowhere as a destination. There’s another one from Beckett. Forced by deathlessness into shocking mocking categoricals an endlessness of love where antics can maneuver in its lid, lit like a squid, for gesture sweet pandemonium, plight. Charlie Chaplin is nodding again.
Clara: I am a southern still, I mean liquor cabinet, fill kill char other artists as drinks of oblivion? mmm. That what of us is — a kill jar. Diggers wiggers and triggers, they break my heart. Again and again. Inspiration gives me breadth whether I can manage it or not. Little beasts ooze up as a drunk in love with The Chaplin — comedy and ardor, strangeness and breadth, a humidor for smokers. Its steely eyed cold beverage?? No. Not really. Invokes Chandlers sense of squalor? however beautiful the vista. Yes, potential for that. Fraught with its own orneriness, the bait oven has its price. Someone yells: we all pay to watch them. There’s a lot of debt between artists as it turns out. I love them for it. But its not always easy.
This they cannot put up with and that, closes in on me — suddenly broke free from the message? keep looking, revealed quarantine treasures, poison think think, can’t see. Sticks to me like shuffling coals in a fire. Coffee bitter takes it straight. I love them for this too. But it can be reckless sometimes. I want what they are having. Thats the thing. Fall into wondrous knells reading Marm, stolen historical AI, crunchy — The way words capture light, can turn into something else completely when read again, as a resource shifty, perky, plethora, sometimes suicidal.
Suicide Sunny the Bunny. Had a lot of those. And they are making their way into malapert sketches. Who will the burglar be? Is he alone? Will she get raped. Is it violence without recourse? No. Its a drink. She’s gonna offer him a drink? Oh hey wanna drink.
Is it a stranger. DISMISS THE EDITOR!? No —
A gun, a drink, a fuck. A swim. They talk about suicide. Kind of fall in love. He’s got kids. Thats it. Say no more. Say no more.
What JJ discovered about hewing the line Finn Agins shows up in Marm, shows up when dismissing the editor. Mulch-like and leathery. A boarder there for me to conjure in. Feel very lucky about that actually. That I finally got a “piece” of that from fellow “travelers.” But one day The Amazon, one of my girl guides said no. Not as “pure poison.” Which is the only interest? Rich yes but scrapes insides out as plague and death camp?! Which it does here anyway — Plague raises Jesus his dying blood lending sanctuary. Death camp gets amalgamated with Japanese sex slavery of Koreans.
Bataille just showed up. We both pull at our lips. How are you gonna handle this he asks.
I don’t know. Let Constance love the night.Continue reading
This is a fun read. My take his phrases, his phrases are FAB ULOT. Encourage anyone who loves lit phrase raise, to read.
Series of rhythms.
Description. Instruction. Exclamation. Oh my.
Onomatopoeia. Mix to taste.
Authority Intimacy Pace.
Little Voice. Moment by moment.
Big Voice. Overvoice French Movie. Victoriana: Put a porch in front. Of.
Snakes Skeleton//gs PoisonousDarts.
Dialogue as gesture. Gesture as dialogue.
In impasse “conversation” insert repetitive nonsense markers. JJs TIP. Before Image Jump. Create as code. Cut, like film.
Insert lists just like this.
Write from within the char. Bend language. Submerge the I. Create epiphany.
Great problems not clever solutions. Sex builds tension laughter cuts it.
Chekhovs directive, if put “gun” in drawer 1st act, must pull it out in final act.
A regular series of unlikely conjunctions. Recycle objects. Evasive dialogue increases tension. Never resolve a threat till you raise a larger one.
You don’t write to make friends — good writing is not about making the writer look good. Gradual discovery process.
Unresolved issues creates tension. Stories that spin into madness.
Anytime deny a possibility create it at the same time. Titanic: the ship is unsinkable.
Verbal gimmicks of narrator.
Cole Porter famous not for inventing catchy hooks — but overhearing them. Chuck calls “crowd seeding.”
Workshop. I found my workshop –what I call The Sandbox.
Most are dead. But a few actually are not. Annie Sexton round about says the same thing.
The sous-conversation, or subtext.
If you are going to be writer don’t be afraid to also be a bad artist. Bradbury painted, Capote did collages, Mailer Vonnegut Thurber drew. Burroughs blasted balloons with paint. COMPLEMENTS writing. I FIND THIS TOO.
Overserve your “community.” More than they can handle alone. Dickens, Twain.
Trick yourself into having a great time. Yeah. AHH but it wasn’t a trick. That was the trick.
Does props and surprises at his events, like Oprah, but much sicker.
He says get it all out on paper or one day — for who knows what reason — it could be GONE. I have multiple copies stored. Of instagram? Yeah cause its copied and its backed up. And stuff here. Yeah gets sent to me everyday. Everyday I get a new version data backup. Thats not backed up. No.
Reasons to love to write:
Flooding. Dangerous writing, Unresolved threatening aspects. Harnessing your monkey mind.
“you have to talk , otherwise your head turns into a cemetery.” Yeah. thats where I live. A lot.
Challenge, or frighten. Or both.
The thing after which everything is different. I can never forget. And always forgive.
Agency repping him, guy embezzled agency folded. So went his money. Ha.
And strained so hard just to put myself there. Beyond my reach. Outside the others boundaries somehow and really — pissed off about it. The wild woody shuffle with Proud Mary became quizzically connected to Sweeney Astray. And the vow cow — it came straight through the “enchanted.” Enchantment is a migration through beautiful hell.
So much of me loved it as a break from the haunting of auntie Em thing ((ie whatever topsoil contined to write just to write — with no other obligation but to the writing itself)) — still to this day feel its(holy) importance as break from that “system” of pur et durs —
Even see variety of “death march” — loss with present tense and multification of personality grotesque confusions — wild bird stuck with tar in ditch —
As beeing ha so ciated with performing sacrificial merit —
Byronic froth is brazenly useful and if diligent enuff can be called, for sake of my sirens, the beautiful absurd.
Dont think my esteem is false but hidden in the tundra — for me its not esteem exactly — the writer somehow presages me — and I go running after what are you doing where are you going.
I have had to establish boundaries in strange and horrid ways, because I couldn’t keep up and kept on being there not being there. Very upsetting.
Now through fog FINALLY feels like am “in tandem” with the writer, that the vu vow ow perforced back up -/ and vow how stay outsize the vanishing.
Its a strange way to be a writer. Blood splatters of the innocent.
SO I just let it be that. And hoe poe row UNreluctantly into goods hams after with help from keens, they are keen and give me great ween, how to spread ink in a manner of speaking hi can live with.
puritanical rim shot is at peace both present and past — tho pure mur burr — is never far before hitting a rim of puritanical seduction and returning cod to fish mold ? Ha.
Her eye has a prize and I have to work plunders to master it.
First new paras are open to surge without having to contain filming with sponge, straight off the byronic — but not as crazy flying disturbances — instead in westies yaddo with semper fi? HA
This ha business is also injj. his was TIP. Which i stole off him lovingly and used for years. Before the low well.
1 Against the Digital Heresy
In the Larry King debate between a rabbi, a Catholic priest and a Southern Baptist, broadcast in March 2000, both the rabbi and the priest expressed their hope that the unification of religions is feasible, since, irrespective of his or her official creed, a thoroughly good person can count on divine grace and redemption. Only the Baptist – a young, well-tanned and slightly overweight, repulsively slick Southern yuppie – insisted that, according to the letter of the Gospel, only those who “live i n Christ” by explicitly recognizing themselves in his address will be redeemed, which is why, as he consequently concluded, “a lot of good and honest people will bum i n hell.” In short, goodness (applying common moral norms) which is not directly grounded in the Gospel is ultimately just a perfidious semblance of itself, its own travesty. Cruel as this position may sound, if one is not to succumb to the Gnostic temptation, one should unconditionally endorse it. The gap that separates Gnosticism from Christianity is irreducible — it concerns the basic question of “who is responsible for the origin of death”:
If you can accept a God who coexists with death camps, schizophrenia, and AIDS, yet remains all-powerful and somehow benign, then you have faith [ …] . If you know yourself as having an affinity with the alien, or stranger God, cut off from this world, then you are a Gnostic.
MOI: Lovely to lose religion. To be on the other side of that forced enclosure. For MY own safety. Ha.
These, then, are the minimal coordinates of Gnosticism: each human being has deep in himself a divine spark which unites him with the Supreme Good; in our daily existence, we are unaware of this spark, since we are kept ignorant by being caught in the inertia of material reality.
Moi: Supremeness. Not interested. Even in idea of supreme good. Turns into stricture. As witness in Christ saves you or your fucked.
We are all fucked. Says the “Eight Ball.”
How does such a view relate to Christianity proper? ls it that Christ had to sacrifice himself in order to pay for the sins of his father who created such an imperfect world?
I like JC as representative of our own dying-dying-dying — and up again up again — as a condition of faith in the Inexhaustible Repetitive, however appears futile and cacophonic.
Imperfection is the only Perfection, there is? Though you can get pretty good at stuff.
Perhaps this Gnostic Divinity, the evil Creator of our material world,
Yes as carrier of the disease of life, I am shiv for evil in carnation. The feminine void. The Girls do at times stretch me pretty damn thin. The Dignity thing, the Escape thing, this is the beginning of thing list for sure.
is the clue to the relationship between Judaism and Christianity, the “vanishing mediator” repressed by both of them:
Vanishing Mediator. Hm. Mine vanished with the pluriparty. Hexcept for third eye. Most upsetting.
the Mosaic figure of the severe God of the Commandments is a fake whose mighty apparition is here to conceal the fact that we are dealing with a confused idiot who botched up the job of creation.
Naw. Its discovery of the absolute One as an Infinity. Also the whole cleanliness thing. A super controlling High Desert Cult. Trying to assert itself over a harsh and stupid reality.
But the god, ultimately, swerves off into heavens and the absolute, has nothing to do with reality. No more a materialistic god, but an escape route from life is the black plague of hell.
In a displaced way, Christianity then acknowledges this fact; Christ dies in order to redeem his father in the eyes of humanity.
Comes through life, approachable, shares our skin, horror, sorrow. And represents desire.
Along the same lines, the Cathars, the Christian heresy par excellence, posited two opposed divinities: on the one hand, the infinitely good God who, however, is strangely impotent, unable to CREATE anything; on the other hand, the Creator of our material universe who is none other than the Devil himself (identical to the God of the Old Testament) – the visible, tangible world in its entirety is a diabolical phenomenon, a manifestation of Evil.
Yeah evil is life. Devil creates. This dance with death.
But thats the religious dialectic all caught up with itself. Foist thing a new knowledge for to do — is split it in two.
The Devil is able to create, but is a sterile creator; this sterility is confirmed by the fact that the Devil succeeded i n producing a wretched universe in which, despite all his efforts, he never contrived anything lasting. Man is thus a split creature: as an entity of flesh and blood, he i s a creation of the Devil. However, the Devil was not able to create spiritual Life, so he was supposed to have asked the good God for help; in his bounty, God agreed to assist the Devil, this depressingly sterile creator, by breathing a soul into the body of lifeless clay. The Devil succeeded in perverting this spiritual flame by causing the Fall, i.e. by drawing the first couple into the carnal union which consummated their position as the creatures of matter.
The devil as sterile? See two devils, really, one is full of laughter. Not nearly as sexy as JC. The dying dick on a stick. I love to mock sexiness of JC and the diabolical as riotous spasms of utter hopelessness.
Idea that carnal union leading to babies is diabolical, is devils amusement. The Divine Comedy, however persists for me, as a kind of hunger for maps, forever being revisited revised restaged.
Why did the Church react in such a violent way to this Gnostic narrative? Not because of the Cathar’s radical Otherness (the dualist belief in the Devil as the counter-agent to the good God; the condemnation of every procreation and fornication, i.e. the disgust at Life in its cycle of generation and corruption),
Disgust at life. That was a magical moment. When time stood still. Its a Marcel memory. I was crossing the street. To get into a cab. Very Camus.
With it — suddenly lost faith in materiality as an expression of being. And present tense began to dissolve into factions. A mocking wilderness of desire and disbelief. Mystic arose not as a belief but as a beautiful thief.
but because these “strange” beliefs which seemed so shocking to the Catholic orthodoxy “were precisely those that had the appearance of stemming logically from orthodox contemporary doctrine. That was why they were considered so dangerous.” Was Cathar dualism not simply a consequent development of the Catholic belief in the Devil? Was the Cathar rejection of fornication also not the consequence of the Catholic notion that concupiscence is inherently “dirty,” and merely has to be tolerated within the confines of marriage, so that marriage is ultimately a compromise with human weakness? In short, what the Cathars offered was the inherent transgression of the official Catholic dogma, its disavowed logical conclusion. And, perhaps, this allows us to propose a more general definition of what heresy is: in order for an ideological edifice to occupy the hegemonic place and legitimize the existing power relations, it HAS to compromise its founding radical message – and the ultimate “heretics” are simply those who reject this compromise, sticking to the original message. Recall the fate of Saint Franciscus: by insisting on the vow of poverty of the true Christians, by refusing integration into the existing social edifice, he came very close to being excommunicated – he was embraced by the Church only after the necessary “rearrangements” were made, which flattened this edge that posed a threat to the existing feudal relations.
Vow thing. And refusing to integrate thing. Hangs over head like Newtons apple tree. And the feeling of a breeze on a warm sunny day. It became in some ways “the only way out” of having to “fit in.” Which the writer refused to do. Hated the thought of it! Still verberates here. “Bad. Very bad.”
Doing ones own thing stuff, money only as “enuff,” overtook every other “pro verb.”
Heidegger’s notion of Geworfenheit, of “being-thrown” into a concrete historical situation, could be of some help here.
Medusa being thrown. Add that to list, girl thing. To be thrown is to be infected with overwhelming desire. And its meanings, suddenly shine through everything. Tortured by its beauty, the Luminence thing.
Geworfenheit is to be opposed both to the standard humanism and to the Gnostic tradition. In the humanist vision, a human being belongs to this earth, he should be fully at home on its surface, able to realize his potentials through the active, productive exchange with it – as the young Marx put it, earth is man’s “anorganic body.” Any notion that we do not belong to this earth, that Earth is a fallen universe, a prison for our soul striving to liberate itself from the material inertia, is dismissed as life denying alienation. For the Gnostic tradition, on the other hand, the human Self is not created, it is a preexisting Soul thrown into a foreign and inhospitable environment.
Thrown into life. Being as a preexisting thing. Very young discoveries — what went on in my mind prior to language. Thats what it felt like.
Discoveries, relating to my body, however shocking, were already there, living in me greedy hungry devout. Things I dreamt — were beyond my experience. How could I alone — make it up. Made no sense.
Why didnt believe in the regulation of fantasy.
Felt life was a religious experience — of discovery, and fantasy purest mechanism of self.
Limitations of or competition between religions — didnt seem to correspond to anything hacktually cared about.
The pain of our daily lives is not the result of our sin (of Adam’s Fall), but of the fundamental glitch in the structure of the material universe itself which was created by defective demons; consequently, the path of salvation does not reside i n overcoming our sins, but in overcoming our ignorance, in transcending the world of material appearances by way of achieving the true Knowledge. What both these positions share is the notion that there is a home, a “natural” place for man: either this world or the “noosphere” from which we fell into this world and for which our souls long. Heidegger points the way out of this predicament: what if we effectively are “thrown” into this world, never fully at home in it, always dislocated, “out of joint,” in it, and what if this dislocation is our constitutive, primordial condition, the very horizon of our being? What if there is no previous “home” out of which we were thrown into this world, what if this very dislocation grounds man ‘s ex-static opening to the world?
Beginning of the beauty of existentialism, pour moi? Was to be able to admit I didnt really exist except to subsist — especially after the nothingness thing spread everywhere. But was of course still stuck being of it and in it. Which was my sin? Partially source of the criminal thing. Ha.
As Heidegger emphasizes in Sein und Zeit, the fact that there is no Sein without Dasein does NOT mean that, if the Dasein were to disappear, no things would remain. Entities would continue to be, but they would not be disclosed within a horizon of meaning – there would have been no world. This is why Heidegger speaks of Dasein and not of man or subject: the subject is OUTSIDE the world and then relates to it, generating the pseudo-problems of the correspondence of our representations to the external world, of the world’s existence, etc.; man is an entity INSIDE the world. Dasein, in contrast to both of them, is the ex-static relating lo the entities within a horizon of meaning, which i s i n advance “thrown” into the world, in the midst of disclosed entities. However, there still remains a “naive” question: if entities are there as Real prior to Lichtung, how do the two ultimately relate? Lichtung somehow had to “explode” from the closure of mere entities – did not Schelling struggle with this ultimate problem (and fail) in his Weltalter drafts, which aimed at deploying the emergence of logos out of the proto-cosmic Real of divine drives? Are we to take the risk of endorsing the philosophical potentials of modern physics, whose results seem to point towards a gap/opening already discernible in pre-ontological nature itself? Furthermore, what if THIS is the danger of technology: that the world itself, its opening, will disappear, that we will return to the prehuman mute being of entities without Lichtung?
Found that out in the mystic. That many of these things already hexisted in Bardo. Finding religion as a patchwork of discovery, without any absolute or unity other than what la langbang could dance around in or see “in the air,” was a massive relief as it squared with “belief,” but also for reasons coinciding with an inability any more to integrate — out of desire, and necessity, found violently heartbreaking, and the mirror dissolved into chaos.
It is against this background that one should also approach the relationship between Heidegger and Oriental thought.
In his exchange with Heidegger, Medard Boss proposes that, in contrast to Heidegger, in Indian thought, the Clearing [Lichtung] in which beings appear does not need man [Dasein] as the “shepherd of being” – human being is merely one of the domains of “standing in the clearing” which shines forth in and for itself. Man unites himself with the Clearing through his selfannihilation, through the ecstatic immersion into the Clearing. This difference is crucial: the fact that man is the unique “shepherd of Being” introduces the notion of the epochal historicity of the Clearing itself, a motif totally lacking in Indian thought. Already in the 1 930s, Heidegger emphasized the fundamental “derangement” [Ver-Rueckheit] that the emergence of Man introduces into the order of entities: the event of Clearing is in itself an Ent-Eignen, a radical and thorough distortion, with no possibility of “return to the undistorted Order”—Ereignis is cosubstantial with the distortion/derangement, it is NOTHING BUT its own distortion. This dimension is, again, totally lacking in Oriental thought—and Heidegger’s ambivalence is symptomatic here. On the one hand, he repeatedly insisted that the main task of the Western thought today is to defend the Greek breakthrough, the founding gesture of the “West,” the overcoming of the pre-philosophical mythical “Asiatic” universe, against the renewed “Asiatic” threat – the greatest opposite of the West is “the mythical in general and the Asiatic in particular.” On the other hand, he gave occasional hints as to how his notions of Clearing and Event resonate with the Oriental notion of the primordial Void.
The philosophical overcoming of the myth is not simply a letting-behind of the mythical, but a constant struggle with(in) it:
I am steeped in the overcoming.
philosophy needs the recourse to myth,
without mythic dont have any stories to explain it. philosophy doesnt transcend itself, isnt supposed to, translate the ordinary. has its own history and language relates there. I have to be careful about it. Its an intruder. but also found stage door through becks awhecks. where sits fer moi whence Virgin with rhetoric. HELP. is a symbol of love. I am not an acolyte. but find openings in his readings can take a bath. And lately more and more, without knife.
not only for external reasons, in order to explain its conceptual teaching to the uneducated crowds, but inherently, to “suture” its own conceptual edifice where it fails to reach its innermost core, from Plato’s myth of the cave to Freud’s myth of the primordial father and Lacan’s myth of lamella. Myth is thus the Real of logos: the foreign intruder, impossible to get rid of, impossible to remain fully within. Therein resides the lesson of Adorno’s and Horkheimer’s Dialectic of Enlightenment: Enlightenment always already “contaminates” the naive immediacy of the mythical. Enlightenment itself is mythical, i.e. its own grounding gesture repeats the mythical operation. And what is “postmodernity” if not the ultimate defeat of the Enlightenment in its very triumph: when the dialectic of Enlightenment reaches its apogee, the dynamic, rootless postindustrial society directly generates its own myth. The technological “reductionism” of cyberspace (mind itself is ultimately reduced to a “spiritual machine”) and the pagan mythic imaginary of sorcery, of mysterious magic powers, etc., are strictly the two sides of the same phenomenon: the defeat of modernity in its very triumph.
Think lovingly of pandoras box as full of contaminants. That have opened and pulled apart. Suppose its bohemian. But I think of as in part cunt punk too under its shoe.
As it was akin to gods of wrath, as an escape from horror of my destiny, all wrapped up in blasting waves of hunger and death, time became seduced into a mythology of rejection, dancing with death coincided with law school and corp injection, as to say run away, get out of it!! do drugs, be a a mug, funnel with booze, an exemption in league with mortality, there was beat, and all its banality, a fountain of youth caught in the charms and coils of a roaring decadence. And I loved its vicious hangover. Still do. I dont think of as childish. But a blinding necessity that sat like precious rot right under my skin, exploding with heedlessness of time. Thought made perfect sense — when daily confronted with limits or starvation, to run out into the night, and die every time.
The cyberspace ideologists’s notion of the Self liberating itself from the attachment to its natural body, i.e. turning itself into a virtual entity floating from one contingent and temporary embodiment to another, can thus present itself as the final scientific-technological realization of the Gnostic dream of the Self getting rid of the decay and inertia of material reality. That is to say, is the notion of the “aetheric” body we can recreate for ourselves in Virtual Reality not the old Gnostic dream of the immaterial “astral body” come true? So what are we to make of this seemingly convincing argument that cyberspace functions in a Gnostic way, promising to elevate us to a level in which we will be delivered of our bodily inertia, provided with another ethereal body? Konrad Lorenz once made the ambiguous remark that we ourselves (“actually existing” humanity) are the sought-after “missing link” between animal and man – how are we to read this? Of course, the first association that imposes itself here is the notion that “actually existing” humanity still dwells in what Marx designated as “pre-history,” and that true human history will begin with the advent of the passage between animal and overman. Does the cyberspace ideology not resuscitate the same notion?
self liberating — aka body of heaven. of an otherness that life shines through. old in the fold. telly never liberated me. gave ghost ships thats all. but sitting here on screen do inscribe to a similar feeling. but with distance capable of being touched. as a human thing. which is shocking. screams at me all the imcomparable negatives —
because the natural body seemingly hangs above as a “purer” state.
like a dick on a stick statue of jesus my favorite on 72nd street in full sacrifical nudity. sexydeathbeast.
it is now the way we live. and I dont feel robbed by it.
These paradoxes provides the proper background for Michel Houellebecq’s Atomized (Les particules elementaires), the story of radical DESUBLIMATION, if there ever was one: in our postmodern, “disenchanted”, permissive world, sexuality is reduced to an apathetic participation in collective orgies. Les particules, a superb example of what some critics perspicuously baptized “Left conservatism,” tells the story of two half-brothers: Bruno, a high-school teacher, is an undersexed hedonist, while Michel is a brilliant but emotionally desiccated biochemist. Abandoned by their hippie mother when they were small, neither has ever properly recovered; all their attempts at the pursuit of happiness, whether through marriage, the study of philosophy, or the consumption of pornography, merely lead to loneliness and frustration. Bruno ends up in a psychiatric asylum after confronting the meaninglessness of permissive sexuality (the utterly depressive descriptions of the sexual orgies between forty-somethings are among the most excruciating readings in contemporary literature), while Michel invents a solution: a new self-replicating gene for a post-human desexualized entity. The novel ends with a prophetic vision: in 2040, humanity is replaced by these humanoids who experience no passions proper, no intense self-assertion that can lead to destructive rage.
Loved the figure in the sand thing. Released me from captivity of self importance of own life. With a simple wash away that was inclement and clemency at same time. From constant worry over holding up my side, having constancy, beauty, integrity, desire, respectability, money. money money, convulsing with absurdity, fountain of death, and so on.
Almost four decades ago, Michel Foucault dismissed “man” as a figure in the sand that is now being washed away, introducing the (then) fashionable topic of the “death of man.” Although Houellebecq stages this disappearance in much more naive and literal terms, as the replacement of humanity with a new post-human species, there is a common denominator between the two: the disappearance of sexual difference. In his last works, Foucault envisioned the space of pleasures liberated from Sex, and one is tempted to claim that Houellebecq’s posthuman society of clones is the realization of the Foucauldian dream of Selves who practice the “use of pleasures.” Perhaps the best way to specify the role of sexual love which is threatened here is through the notion of reflexivity as the movement whereby that which has been used to generate a system is made, through a changed perspective, to become part of the system it generates. This reflexive appearance of the generating movement within the generated system, in the guise of what Hegel called the “oppositional determination,” as a rule takes the form of the opposite: within the material sphere, Spirit appears in the guise of the most inert moment (crane, formless black stone); in the later stage of a revolutionary process when Revolution starts to devour its own children, the political agent which effectively set in motion the process is renegated into the role of its main obstacle, of the waverers or outright traitors who are not ready to follow the revolutionary logic to its conclusion. Along the same lines, is it not the case that, once the socio-symbolic order is fully established, the very dimension which introduced the “transcendent” attitude that defines a human being, namely SEXUALITY, the uniquely human “undead” sexual passion, appears as its very opposite, as the main OBSTACLE to the elevation of a human being to pure spirituality, as that which ties him/her down to the inertia of bodily existence? For this reason, the end of sexuality in the much celebrated “posthuman” self-cloning entity expected to emerge soon, far from opening up the way to pure spirituality, will simultaneously signal the end of what is traditionally designated as the uniquely human spiritual transcendence. All the celebrations of the new “enhanced” possibilities of sexual life that Virtual Reality offers cannot conceal the fact that, once cloning supplements sexual difference, the game is over. Incidentally, with all the focus on the new experiences of pleasure that lie ahead with the development of Virtual Reality, direct neuronal implants, etc., what about new “enhanced” possibilities of TORTURE? Do biogenetics and Virtual Reality combined not open up new and unheard-of horizons for extending our ability to endure pain (through widening our sensory capacity to sustain pain, through inventing new forms of inflicting it)? Perhaps the ultimate Sadean image of an “undead” victim of the torture who can sustain endless pain without having at his/her disposal the escape into death also waits to become reality. Perhaps, in a decade or two, our most horrifying cases of torture (say, what they did to the Dominican Anny Chief of Staff after the failed coup in which the dictator Trujillo was killed – sewing his eyes together so that he wasn’t able to see his torturers, and then for four months slowly cutting off parts of his body in most painful ways, like using clumsy scissors to detach his genitals) will appear as naive children ‘s games.
spiritual transcendence and flame, bataille and saint george and the dragon, criss cross. that treachurous tormented incision that life cuts at our neck, and gushes out of a cock. the pain of its chase hunt punt bunt, fountain of eggs, crazy negs, power, mistification, insignificance, nothingness, emptiness, the hole in my soul.
oh hello, we must be off. Kay kay get out rake and play torture with floss. Pause — for a commercial.
We all know of Alan Turing’s famous “imitation game” which should serve to test if a machine can think: we communicate with two computer interfaces, asking them any imaginable question; behind one of the inteJiaces is a human person typing the answers, while behind the other there is a machine. If, based on the answers we get, we cannot tell the intelligent machine from the intelligent human , then, according to Turing, our failure proves that machines can think. What is a little bit less known is that in its first formulation, the issue was not to distinguish human from machine, but man from woman. Why this strange displacement from sexual difference to the difference between human and machine? Was this simply due to Turing’s eccentricity (recall his well-known troubles because of his homosexuality)? According to some interpreters, the point is to oppose the two experiments: a successful imitation of a woman’ s responses by a man (or vice versa) would not prove anything, because the gender identity does not depend on the sequences of symbols, while a successful imitation of man by a machine would prove that this machine thinks, because “thinking” is ultimately the proper way of sequencing symbols. What if, instead, the solution to this enigma is much more simple and radical? What if sexual difference is not simply a biological fact, but the Real of an antagonism that defines humanity, so that once sexual difference is abolished, a human being effectively becomes indistinguishable from a machine?
Does, then, the full formulation of the genome effectively foreclose subjectivity and/or sexual difference? When, on June 26, 2000, the completion of a “working draft” of the human genome was publicly announced, the wave of commentaries about the ethical, medical, etc. consequences of this breakthrough rendered manifest the first paradox of the genome, the immediate identity of the opposite attitudes: on the one hand, the idea is that we can now formulate the very positive identity of a human being, what s/he “objectively is,” what predetermines his/her development; on the other hand, knowing the complete genome – the “instruction book for human life,” as it is usually referred to – opens up the way for the technological manipulation, enabling us to “reprogram” our (or, rather, others’) bodily and psychic features. This new situation seems to signal the end of the entire series of traditional notions: theological creationism (comparing human with animal genomes makes it clear that human beings evolved from animals – we share more than 99 percent of our genome with the chimpanzee), sexual reproduction (rendered superfluous by the prospect of cloning), and, ultimately, psychology or psychoanalysis – does the genome not realize Freud’s old dream of translating psychic processes into objective chemical processes?
Here, however, one should be attentive to the formulation which repeatedly occurs in most of the reactions to the identification of the genome: “The old adage that every disease with the exception of trauma has a genetic component is really going to be true.” Although this statement is meant as the assertion of a triumph, one should nonetheless focus on the exception that it concedes, the impact of a trauma. How serious and extensive is this limitation? The first thing to bear in mind here is that “trauma” is NOT simply a shorthand term for the unpredictable chaotic wealth of environment influences, so that we are lead to the standard proposition according to which the identity of a human being results from the interaction between his/her genetic inheritance and the influence of his/her environment (“nature versus nurture”). It is also not sufficient to replace this standard proposition with the more refined notion of the “embodied mind” developed by Francisco Varela”: a human being is not just the outcome of the interaction between genes and environment as the two opposed entities; s/he is rather the engaged embodied agent who, instead of “relating” to his/her environs, mediates-creates his/her life-world – a bird lives in a different environment than a fish or a man.
However, “trauma” designates a shocking encounter which precisely DISTURBS this immersion into one’s life-world, a violent intrusion of something which doesn’t fit. Of course, animals can also experience traumatic ruptures: say, is the ants’s universe not thrown off the rails when a human intervention totally subverts their environs? However, the difference between animals and humans is crucial here: for animals, such traumatic ruptures are the exception, they are experienced as a catastrophy which ruins their way of life; for humans, on the contrary, the traumatic encounter is a universal condition, the intrusion which sets in motion the process of “becoming human.” Humans are not simply overwhelmed by the impact of the traumatic encounter – as Hegel put it, they are able to “tarry with the negative,” to counteract its destabilizing impact by spinning out intricate symbolic cobwebs. This is the lesson of both psychoanalysis and the Jewish-Christian tradition: the specific human vocation does not rely on the development of man’s inherent potentials (on the awakening of the dormant spiritual forces OR of some genetic program); it is triggered by an external traumatic encounter, by the encounter of the Other’ s desire in its impenetrability. In other words (and pace Steve Pinker), there is no inborn “language instinct”. There are, of course, genetic conditions that have to be met if a living being is to be able to speak; however, one actually starts to speak, one enters the symbolic universe, only by reacting to a traumatic jolt – and the mode of this reacting (i.e. the fact that we symbolize in order to cope with a trauma) is NOT “in our genes.”
Everything appeared in some ways as a violent intrusion. Of what is life. that had to be dealt with. Right wrong or indifferent. Kind of like peace with past thing. Could not decode. Its dualities with “kingdom” of thought. And beauty untold. And life of a scold. My scold, Faire Fi. Used to call a suicidal “bridal” Haute la Couer. Had to set her free from absolutes with finding again a pathway to kindness and observance. Nothing short of that worked. Or something.
The ongoing decoding of the human body, the prospect of the formulation of each individual ‘s genome, confronts us in a pressing way with the radical question of “what we are”: am I that, the code that can be compressed onto a single CD? Are we “nobody and nothing,” just an illusion of self-awareness whose only reality is the complex interacting network of neuronal and other links? The uncanny feeling generated by playing with toys like tamagochi concerns the fact that we treat a virtual non-entity as an entity: we act “as if’ (we believe that) there is, behind the screen, a real Self, an animal reacting to our signals, although we know well that there is nothing and nobody “behind,” just the digital circuitry. However, what is even more disturbing is the implicit reflexive reversal of this insight: if there is effectively no one out there, behind the screen, what if the same goes for myself? What if the “I,” my self awareness, is also merely a superficial “screen” behind which there is only a “blind” complex neuronal circuit? Or, to make the same point from a different perspective: why are people so afraid of airplane crashes? It’s not the physical pain as such—what causes such horror are the two or three minutes while the plane is falling down and one is fully aware that one will die shortly. Does the genome identification not transpose us into a similar situation? That is to say, the uncanny aspect of the genome identification concerns the temporal gap that separates the knowledge of what causes a certain disease from the development of the technical means to intervene and prevent this disease from evolving—the period of time in which we shall know for sure that, say, we are about to get a dangerous cancer, but will be unable to do anything to prevent it. And what about “objectively” reading our IQ or the genetic ability for other intellectual capacities? How will the awareness of this total self-objectivization affect our self-experience? The standard answer (the knowledge of our genome will enable us to intervene into our genome and change for the better our psychic and bodily properties) still begs the crucial question: if the self-objectivization is complete, who is the “I” that intervenes into “its own” genetic code in order to change it? Is this intervention itself not already objectivized in the totally scanned brain?
Neg pregs about action at a distance being “empty” of subject, which I have not found holds up.
The “closure” anticipated by the prospect of the total scanning of the human brain resides not only in the full correlation between the scanned neuronal activity in our brain and our subjective experience (so that a scientist will be able to give an impulse to our brain and then predict to what subjective experience this impulsive will give rise), but in the much more radical notion of bypassing subjective experience as such: what scanning will make it possible to identify DIRECTLY will be our subjective experience, so that the scientist will not even have to ask us what we experience – he will be able to READ IMMEDIATELY on his screen what we experience. There is further evidence which points in the same direction: a couple of milliseconds before a human subject “freely” decides in a situation of choice, scanners can detect the change in the brain’s chemical processes which indicates that the decision was already taken – even when we make a free decision, our consciousness seems just to register an anterior chemical process. The psychoanalytic-Schellingian answer to it is to locate freedom (of choice) at the unconscious level: the true acts of freedom are choices/decisions which we make while unaware of it – we never decide (in the present tense); all of a sudden, we just take note of how we have already decided. On the other hand, one can argue that such a dystopian prospect involves the loop of a petitio principii: it silently presupposes that the same old Self which phenomenologically relies on the gap between “myself’ and the objects “out there” will continue to be here after the completed self-objectivization.
limits capability of measurement creates gaps.
The paradox, of course, is that this total self-objectivization overlaps with its opposite: what looms at the horizon of the “digital revolution” is nothing else than the prospect that human beings will acquire the capacity of what Kant and other German Idealists called “intellectual intuition” [intellektuelle Anschauung], the closure of the gap that separates (passive) intuition and (active) production, i.e. the intuition which immediately generates the object it perceives—the capacity hitherto reserved for the infinite divine mind. On the one hand, it will be possible, through neurological implants, to switch from our “common” reality to another computer-generated reality without all the clumsy machinery of today’s Virtual Reality (the awkward glasses, gloves … ), since the signals of the virtual reality will directly reach our brain, bypassing our sensory organs:
Your neural implants will provide the simulated sensory inputs of the virtual environment – and your virtual body – directly in your brain. [ … ] A typical ‘web site’ will be a perceived virtual environment, with no external hardware required. You ‘go there’ by mentally selecting the site and then entering that world.
We will thus reach a kind of omnipotence, being able to change from one reality to another by the mere power of our thoughts, to transform our bodies as well as the bodies of our partners: “With this technology, you will be able to have almost any kind of experience with just about anyone, real or imagined, at any time.” The question to be asked here is: will this still be experienced as “reality”? Is not, for a human being, “reality” ONTOLOGICALLY defined through the minimum of RESISTANCE? – real is that which resists, that which is not totally malleable to the caprices of our imagination.
As to the obvious counter-question: “However, everything cannot be virtualized – there still has to be the one ‘real reality’, that of the digital or biogenetic circuitry itself which generates the very multiplicity of virtual universes!”, the answer is provided by the prospect of “downloading” the entire human brain (once it will be possible to scan it completely) onto an electronic machine more efficient and less awkward than it. At this crucial moment, a human being will change its ontological status “from hardware to software”: it will no longer be identified with (stuck to) its material bearer (the brain in the human body). The identity of our Self is a certain neuronal pattern, the network of waves, which, in principle, can be transferred from one to another material support. Of course, there is no “pure mind”, i.e. there always has to be some kind of embodiment – however, if our mind is a software pattern, it should be in principle possible for it to shift from one to another material support (is this not going on all the time at a different level: is the “stuff’ our cells are made of not continuously changing?). The idea is that this cutting off of the umbilical cord that links us to a single body, this shift from having (and being stuck to) a body to freely floating between different embodiments will mark the true birth of the human being, relegating the entire hitherto history of humanity to the status of a confused period of transition from the animal kingdom to the true kingdom of the mind.
Here, however, philosophical-existential enigmas emerge again, and we are back at the Leibnizian problem of the identity of the indiscernibles: if (the pattern of) my brain is loaded onto a different material support, which of the two minds is “myself’? In what does the identity of “myself’ consist, if il resides neither in the material support (which changes all the time) nor in the formal pattern (which can be exactly replicated)? No wonder Leibniz is one of the predominant philosophical references of the cyberspace theorists: what reverberates today is not only his dream of a universal computing machine, but the uncanny resemblance between his ontological vision of monadology and today’s emerging cyberspace community in which global harmony and solipsism strangely coexist. That is to say, does our immersion into cyberspace not go hand in hand with our reduction to a Leibnizean monad which, although “without windows” open to external reality, mirrors in itself the entire universe? Are we not more and more monads with no direct windows onto reality, interacting alone with the PC screen, encountering only the virtual simulacra, and yet immersed more than ever into the global network, synchronously communicating with the entire globe? The impasse which Leibniz tried to solve by way of introducing the notion of “preestablished harmony” between the monads, guaranteed by God Himself, the supreme, all-encompassing monad, repeats itself today, in the guise of the problem of communication: how does each of us know that s/he is in touch with the “real other” behind the screen, not only with spectral simulacra? Therein resides one of the key unanswered enigmas of the Wachowski brothers’ film The Matrix: why does the Matrix construct a shared virtual reality in which all humans interact? It would have been much more economic to have each subject interacting ONLY with the Matrix, so that all humans encountered would have been only digital creatures. Why? The interaction of “real” individuals through the Matrix creates its own big Other, the space of implicit meanings, surmises, etc., which can no longer be controlled by the Matrix – the Matrix is thus reduced to a mere instrument/medium, to the network that only serves as a material support for the “big Other” beyond its control.
sci fi use of math matrixes as crossing dimensions.
More radically even, what about the obvious Heideggerian counter-thesis that the notion of the “brain in the vat” on which this entire scenario relies, involves an ontological mistake: what accounts for the specific human dimension is not a property or pattern of the brain, but the way a human being is situated in his/her world and ex-statically relates to the things in it; language is not the relationship between an object (word) and another object (thing or thought) in the world, but the site of the historically determinate disclosure of the world-horizon as such. To this, one is tempted to give a cynical outright answer: OK, so what? With the immersion into Virtual Reality, we will effectively be deprived of the ex-static being-in-the-world that pertains to the human finitude – but what if this loss will open up to us another, unheard-of, dimension of spirituality?
brain in vat, mary and frankenstein.
The paradox—or, rather, the antinomy—of cyberspace reason concerns precisely the fate of the body. Even advocates of cyberspace warn us that we should not totally forget our body, that we should maintain our anchoring in “real life” by returning, regularly, from our immersion in cyberspace to the intense experience of our body, from sex to jogging. We will never turn ourselves into virtual entities freely floating from one to another virtual universe: our “real life” body and its mortality is the ultimate horizon of our existence, the ultimate, innermost impossibility that underpins the immersion in all possible multiple virtual universes. Yet, at the same time, in cyberspace the body returns with a vengeance: in popular perception, “cyberspace IS hardcore pornography,” i.e. hardcore pornography is perceived as the predominant use of cyberspace. The literal “enlightenment,” the “lightness of being,” the relief/alleviation we feel when we freely float in cyberspace (or, even more, in Virtual Reality), is not the experience of being bodiless, but the experience of possessing another—aetheric, virtual, weightless—body, a body which does not confine us to the inert materiality and finitude, an angelic spectral body, a body which can be artificially recreated and manipulated. Cyberspace thus designates a turn, a kind of “negation of negation,” in the gradual progress towards the disembodying of our experience (first writing instead of the “living” speech, then press, then the mass media, then radio, then TV): in cyberspace, we return to bodily immediacy, but to an uncanny, virtual immediacy. In this sense, the claim that cyberspace contains a Gnostic dimension is fully justified: the most concise definition of Gnosticism is precisely that it is a kind of spiritualized materialism: its topic is not directly the higher, purely notional, reality, but a “higher” BODILY reality, a proto-reality of shadowy ghosts and undead entities.
2. “Father, why did you forsake me?”
What, then, does the Christian tradition oppose to this Gnostic legacy? Let us start with Gilles Deleuze’s exemplary analysis of Chaplin’s late films:
Between the small Jewish barber and the dictator [in The Great Dictator], the difference is as negligible as that between their respective moustaches. Yet it results in two situations as infinitely remote, as far opposed as those of victim and executioner. Likewise, in Monsieur Verdoux, the difference between the two aspects or demeanours of the same man, the lady-assassin and the loving husband of a paralysed wife, is so thin that all his wife’s intuition is required for the premonition that somehow he ‘changed.’ [ … ] The burning question of Limelight is: what is that ‘nothing,’ that sign of age, that small difference of triteness, on account of which the funny clown’s number changes into a tedious spectacle?”
The same imperceptible “almost nothing,” of course, also accounts for the difference between the two Veroniques in Kieslowski’s Double Life. The paradigmatic case of this “almost nothing” are the old paranoiac science-fiction films from the early 1 950s about aliens occupying a small American town: they look and act like normal Americans, we can distinguish them only via the reference to some minor detail. It is Ernst Lubitsch’s To Be Or Not To Be which brings this logic to its dialectical climax. In one of the funniest scenes of the film, the pretentious Polish actor who, as the part of a secret mission, has to impersonate the cruel high Gestapo officer Erhardt, does this impersonation in an exaggerated way, reacting to the remarks of his interlocutor about his cruel treatment of the Poles with a loud vulgar laughter and a satisfied constatation, “So they call me Concentration Camp Erhardt, hahaha!” We, the spectators, take this for a ridiculous caricature – however, when, later in the film, the REAL Erhardt appears, he reacts to his interlocutors in exactly the same way. Although the “real” Erhardt thus in a way imitates his imitation, “plays himself,” this uncanny coincidence makes all the more palpable the absolute gap that separates him from the poor Polish impersonator. In Hitchcock’s Vertigo, we find a more tragic version of the same uncanny coincidence: the low-class Judy who, under the pressure exerted from and out of her love for Scottie, endeavours to look and act like the high-class fatal and ethereal Madeleine, turns out to BE Madeleine: they are the same person, since the “true” Madeleine Scottie encountered was already a fake. However, this identity of Judy and Judy-Madeleine, this difference between the two fakes, again renders all the more palpable the absolute otherness of Madeleine with regard to Judy – the Madeleine that is given nowhere, that is present just i n the guise of the ethereal “aura” that envelops .Judy-Madeleine. The Real is the appearance as appearance, it not only appears WITHIN appearances, but it is also NOTHING BUT its own appearance—it is just a certain GRIMACE of reality, a certain imperceptible, unfathomable, ultimately illusory feature that accounts for the absolute difference within identity. So, with regard to the grimace of real/reality, it is crucial to keep open the reversibility of this formulation. In a first approach, reality is a grimace of the real—the real, structured/distorted into the “grimace” we call reality through the pacifying symbolic network, somehow like the Kantian Ding-an-sich structured into what we experience as objective reality through the transcendental network. However, at a deeper level, the real itself is nothing but a grimace of reality: the obstacle, the “bone in the throat” which forever distorts our perception of reality, introducing anamorphic stains in it, or the pure Schein of Nothing that only “shines through” reality, since it is “in itself’ thoroughly without substance.
A homologous inversion is to be accomplished by way of the “illusion of the real,” the postmodern denunciation of every (effect of) the Real as an illusion: what Lacan opposes to it is the much more subversive notion of the Real of the illusion itself. Consider the fashionable argument according to which Real Socialism failed because it endeavoured to impose onto reality an illusory utopian vision of humanity, not taking into account the way real people are structured through the force of tradition: on the contrary, Real Socialism failed because it was – in its Stalinist version – ALL TOO “REALISTIC,” because it underestimated the REAL of the “illusions” which continued to determine human activity (“bourgeois individualism,” etc.), and conceived of the “construction of socialism” as a ruthlessly “realistic” mobilization and exploitation of the individuals in order to build a new order. One is thus tempted to claim that, while Lenin still remained faithful to the “real of the (Communist) illusion”, to its emancipatory utopian potential, Stalin was a simple “realist”, engaged in a ruthless power-struggle.
Each of the two parts of Freud’ s inaugural dream on Irma’s injection concludes with a figuration of the Real. In the conclusion of the first part, this is obvious: the look into Irma’s throat renders the Real in the guise of the primordial flesh, the palpitation of the life substance as the Thing itself, in its disgusting dimension of a cancerous outgrowth.
However, in the second part, the comic symbolic exchange/interplay of the three doctors also ends up with the Real, this time in its opposite aspect—the Real of writing, of the meaningless formula of trimethylamine. The difference hinges on the different starting point: if we end with the Imaginary (the mirror-confrontation of Freud and Irma), we get the Real in its imaginary dimension, as a horrifying primordial image that cancels the imagery itself; if we start with the Symbolic (the exchange of arguments between the three doctors), we get the signifier itself transformed into the Real of a meaningless letter/formula. Needless to add, these two figures are the very two opposite aspects of the Lacanian Real: the abyss of the primordial Life-Thing and the meaningless letter/formula (as in the Real of the modern science). And, perhaps, one should add to them the third Real, the “Real of the illusion”, the Real of a pure semblance, of a spectral dimension which shines through our common reality.
A homologous reversal is to be accomplished if we are to properly conceive the paradoxical status of the Real as impossible. The deconstructionist ethical edifice is based on the IMPOSSIBILITY of the act: the act never happens, it is impossible for it to occur, it is always deferred, about to come, there is forever the gap that separates the impossible fullness of the Act from the limited dimension of our contingent pragmatic intervention (say, the unconditional ethical demand of the Other from the pragmatic political intervention with which we answer it). The fantasy of metaphysics is precisely that the impossible Act CAN or COULD happen, that it would have happened if it were not for some contingent empirical obstacle; the task of the deconstructionist analysis is then to demonstrate how what appears (and is misperceived) as a contingent empirical obstacle actually gives body to a proto-transcendental a priori – such apparently contingent obstacles HAVE to occur, the impossibility is structural, not empirical-contingent. For example, the illusion of anti-Semitism is that social antagonisms are introduced by the Jewish intervention, so that, if we eliminate Jews, the fully realized non-antagonistic harmonious social body will take place; against this misperception, the critical analysis should demonstrate how the anti-Semitic figure of the Jew simply gives body to the structural impossibility constitutive of the social order.
It seems that Lacan also fits this logic perfectly: does the illusory fullness of the imaginary fantasy not cover up a structural gap, and does psychoanalysis not assert the heroic acceptance of the fundamental gap and/or structural impossibility as the very condition of desire? Is this not, exactly, the “ethics of the Real”—the ethics of accepting the Real of a structural impossibility? However, what Lacan ultimately aims at is precisely the opposite. Let us take the case of love. Lovers usually dream that in some mythical Otherness (“another time, another place”), their love would have found its true fulfilment, that it is only the present contingent circumstances which prevent this fulfilment; and is the Lacanian lesson here not that one should accept this obstacle as structurally necessary, that there is NO “other place” of fulfilment, that this Otherness is the very Otherness of the fantasy? NO: the “Real as impossible” means here that THE IMPOSSIBLE DOES HAPPEN, that “miracles” like Love (or political revolution: “in some respects, a revolution is a miracle,” said Lenin in 1 92 1 ) DO occur. From “impossible TO happen” we thus pass to “the impossible HAPPENS”—this, and not the structural obstacle forever deferring the final resolution, is the most difficult thing to accept: “We’d forgotten how to be in readiness even for miracles to happen.”
And it’s exactly the same with belief: the lesson of Graham Greene’s novels is that religious belief, far from being the pacifying consolation, is the most traumatic thing to accept. Therein resides the ultimate failure of Neil Jordan’s film The End of the Affair, which accomplishes two changes with regard to Greene’s novel upon which it is based: it displaces the ugly birthmark (and its miraculous disappearance after a kiss by Sarah) from the atheist preacher to the private investigator’s son, and it condenses two persons (the atheist preacher whom Sarah visited after her shocking encounter with the miracle, i.e. the rising of her lover from the dead, and the older Catholic priest who tries to console Maurice, the narrator, and Sarah’s husband after her death) into one, the preacher whom Sarah is secretly visiting and who is mistaken by Maurice for her lover. This replacement of the agnostic preacher by a priest thoroughly misses the point of Sarah ‘s visits: in a dialectic of faith that is Greene’s trademark, she starts to visit him precisely because of his ferocious anti-theism: she wants desperately to ESCAPE her faith, the miraculous proof of God’s existence, so she takes refuge with the avowed atheist—with the predictable result that not only does he fail in delivering her of her faith, but that, at the novel’s end, he himself becomes a believer (THIS is also the reason why the miracle of the disappearing birthmark has to take place on HIS face!). The psychoanalytic name for such a “miracle,” for an intrusion which momentarily suspends the causal network of our daily lives, is, of course, trauma. In his Zollikoner Seminare, edited by Medard Boss, Heidegger dismisses Freud as a causal determinist:
He postulates for the conscious human phenomena that they can be explained without gaps, i.e. the continuity of causal connections. Since there are no such connections ‘in consciousness, ‘ he has to invent ‘the unconscious,’ in which there have to be the causal links without gaps.
Here, of course, Heidegger completely misses the way the Freudian “unconscious” is grounded in the traumatic encounter of an Otherness whose intrusion precisely breaks, interrupts, the continuity of the causal link: what we get in the “unconscious” is not a complete, uninterrupted, causal link, but the repercussions, the after-shocks, of traumatic interruptions.” Although there is a similarity between this Lacanian Real and the notion of the “priority of the objective” elaborated by Adorno, Heidegger’ s most embittered critic, it is this very similarity that renders all the more palpable the gap that separates them. Adorno’s basic endeavour is to reconcile the materialist “priority of the objective” with the idealist legacy of the subjective “mediation” of all objective reality: everything we experience as directly-immediately given is already mediated, posited through a network of differences; every theory that asserts our access to immediate reality, be it the phenomenological Wesensschau or the empiricist perception of elementary sensual data, is false. On the other hand, Adorno also rejects the idealist notion that all objective content is posited/produced by the subject – such a stance also fetishizes subjectivity itself into a given immediacy. This is tl1e reason why Adorno opposes the Kantian a priori of the transcendental categories which mediate our access to reality (and thus constitute what we experience as reality): for Adorno, the Kantian transcendental a priori does not simply absolutize the subjective mediation—it obliterates its own historical mediation. The table of Kantian transcendental categories is not a pre-historical “pure” a priori, but a historically “mediated” conceptual network, i.e., a network embedded in and engendered by a determinate historical constellation. How, then, are we to think TOGETHER the radical mediation of all objectivity and the materialist “priority of the objective”? The solution is that this “priority” is the very result of mediation brought to its end, the kernel of resistance that we cannot experience directly, but only in the guise of the absent point of reference on account of which every mediation ultimately FAILS.
It is a standard argument against Adorno’s “negative dialectics” to reproach it for its inherent inconsistency. Adorno’s answer to this is quite appropriate: stated as a definitive doctrine, as a result, “negative dialectics” effectively IS “inconsistent”—the way to properly grasp it is to conceive of it as the description of a process of thought (in Lacanese, to include the position of enunciation involved in it). “Negative dialectics” designates a position which includes its own failure, i.e. which produces the truth-effect through its very failure. To put it succinctly: one tries to grasp/conceive the object of thought; one fails, missing it, and through these very failures the place of the targeted object is encircled, its contours become discernible. So what one is tempted to do here is to introduce the Lacanian notion of the “barred” subject and the object as real/impossible: the Adornian distinction between immediately accessible “positive” objectivity and the objectivity targeted in the “priority of the objective” i s the very Lacanian distinction between (symbolically mediated) reality and the impossible Real. Furthermore, does the Adornian notion that the subject retains its subjectivity only insofar it is “incompletely” subject, insofar as some kernel of objectivity resists its grasp, not point towards the subject as constitutively “barred”?
here are two ways out of the deadlock where Adorno’s “negative dialectics” ends, the Habermasian one and the Lacanian one. Habermas, who correctly perceived Adorno’s inconsistency, his self-destructive critique of a Reason which cannot account for itself, proposed as a solution the pragmatic a priori of communicative normativity, a kind of Kantian regulative ideal presupposed in every intersubjective exchange. Lacan, on the contrary, elaborates the concept of what Adorno deployed as dialectical paradoxes: the concept of the “barred” subject that exists only through its own impossibility—the concept of the Real as the inherent, not external, limitation of reality.
At the level of theology, this shift from external to inherent limitation is accomplished by Christianity. In Judaism, God remains the transcendent irrepresentable Other. As Hegel was right to emphasize, Judaism is the religion of the Sublime: it tries to render the suprasensible dimension not through the overwhelming excess of the sensible, like the Indian statues with dozens of hands, etc., but in a purely negative way, by renouncing images altogether. Christianity, on the contrary, renounces this God of Beyond, this Real behind the curtain of the phenomena; it acknowledges that there is NOTHING beyond the appearance—nothing BUT the imperceptible X that changes Christ, this ordinary man, into God. In the ABSOLUTE identity of man and God, the divine is the pure Schein of another dimension that shines through Christ, this miserable creature. It is only here that iconoclasm is truly brought to its conclusion: what is effectively “beyond the image” is that X that makes Christ the man God. In this precise sense, Christianity inverts the Jewish sublimation into a radical desublimation: not desublimation in the sense of the simple reduction of God to man, but desublimation in the sense of the descent of the sublime Beyond to the everyday level. Christ is a “ready made God” (as Boris Groys put it), he is fully human, inherently indistinguishable from other humans in exactly the same way Judy is indistinguishable from Madeleine in Vertigo, or the “true” Erhardt is indistinguishable from his impersonator in To Be Or Not to Be—it is only the imperceptible “something”, a pure appearance which cannot ever be grounded in a substantial property, that makes him divine. THIS is why Christianity is the religion of Jove and of comedy: as examples from Lubitsch and Chaplin demonstrate, there is always something comic in this unfathomable difference that undermines the established identity (Judy IS Madeleine, Hynkel IS the Jewish barber). And love is to be opposed here to desire: desire is always caught in the logic of “this is not that,” it thrives in the gap that forever separates the obtained satisfaction from the sought-for satisfaction, while love FULLY ACCEPTS that “this IS that” – that the woman with all her weaknesses and common features IS the Thing I unconditionally love, that Christ, this miserable man, IS the living God. Again, to avoid a fatal misunderstanding, the point is not that we should “renounce transcendence” and fully accept the limited human person as our love object, since “this is all there is”: transcendence is not abolished, but rendered ACCESSIBLE—it shines through in this very clumsy and miserable being that I love.'
Christ is thus not “man PLUS God”: what becomes visible in him is simply the divine dimension in man “as such.” So, far from being the Highest in man, the purely spiritual dimension towards which all men strive, “divinity” is rather a kind of obstacle, a “bone in the throat”—it is something, that unfathomable X, on account of which man cannot ever fully become MAN, self-identical. The point is not that, due to the limitation of his mortal sinful nature, man cannot ever become fully divine, but that, due to the divine spark in him, man cannot ever fully become MAN. Christ as man=God is the unique case of full humanity (ecce homo, as Pontius Pilatus put it to the mob demanding the lynching of Christ). For that reason, after his death, there is no place for any God of the Beyond: all that remains is the Holy Spirit, the community of believers onto which the unfathomable aura of Christ passes once it is deprived of its bodily incarntion. To put it in Freudian terms, once it can no longer rely on the Anlehnung onto Christ’s body, it has the same sense as the drive which aims at the unconditional satisfaction and which always has to “lean on” a particular, contingent material object which acts as the source of its satisfaction.
The key distinction to be maintained here can be exemplified by the (apparent) opposite of religion, the intense sexual experience. Eroticization relies on the inversion-into-self of the movement directed at an external goal: the movement itself becomes its own goal. (When, instead of simply gently shaking the hand offered to me by the beloved person, I hold to it and repeatedly squeeze it, my activity will be automatically experienced as—welcome or, perhaps, intrusively unwelcome—eroticization: what I do is change the goal-oriented activity into an end-in-itself.) Therein resides the difference between the goal and the aim of a drive: say, with regard to the oral drive, its goal may be to eliminate hunger, but its aim is the satisfaction provided by the activity of eating (sucking, swallowing) itself. One can imagine the two satisfactions entirely separated: when, in a hospital, I am fed intravenously, my hunger is satisfied, but not my oral drive; when, on the contrary, a small child rhythmically sucks a pacifier, the only satisfaction he gets is that of the drive. This gap that separates aim from goal “eternalizes” drive, transforming the simple instinctual movement which finds peace and cairn when it reaches its goal (say, the full stomach) into the process which gets caught in its own loop and insists on endlessly repeating itself. The crucial feature to take note of here is that this inversion cannot be formulated in the terms of the primordial lack and the series of metonymic objects trying (and, ultimately, failing) to fill in its void. When the eroticized body of my partner starts to function as the object around which drive circulates, this does NOT mean that his/her ordinary (“pathological”, in the Kantian sense of the term) flesh-and-blood body is “transubstantiated” into a contingent embodiment of the sublime impossible Thing, holding (filling out) its empty place. Let us take a straightforwardly “vulgar” example: when a (heterosexual male) lover is fascinated with his partner’s vagina, “never getting enough of it,” prone not only to penetrate it, but to explore and caress it in all possible ways, the point is NOT that, in a kind of deceptive short-circuit, he mistakes the piece of skin, hair and meat for the Thing itself—his lover’ s vagina is, in all its bodily materiality, “the thing itself’, not the spectral appearing of another dimension. What makes it an “infinitely” desirable object whose “mystery” cannot ever be fully penetrated is its non-identity to itself, i.e. the way it is never directly “itself.” The gap which “eternalizes” drive, turning it into the endlessly repetitive circular movement around the object, is not the gap that separates the void of the Thing from its contingent embodiments, but the gap that separates the very pathological object FROM ITSELF, in the same way that, as we have just seen, Christ is not the contingent material (“pathological”) embodiment of the suprasensible God: his “divine” dimension is reduced to the aura of a pure Schein.
We all know the phrase “the devil resides in the details”—implying that, in an agreement, you should be attentive to the proverbial small letter specifications and conditions at the bottom of the page which may contain unpleasant surprises, and, for all practical purposes, null ify what the agreement offers. However, does this phrase hold also for theology? Is it really that God is discernible in the overall harmony of the universe, while the Devil sticks in small features which, while insignificant from the global perspective, can mean terrible suffering for us individuals? With regard to Christianity, at least, one is tempted to turn this formula around: God resides in details—in the overall drabness and indifference of the universe, we discern the divine dimension in barely perceptible details—a kind smile here, an unexpected helpful gesture there. The Turin Shroud with the alleged photographic imprint of Christ is perhaps the ultimate case of this “divine detail,” of the “little bit of the real”—the very hot debates about it neatly fall into the triad IRS: the Imaginary (is the image discernible on it the faithful reproduction of Christ?), the Real (when was the material made? Is the test which demonstrated that the linen was woven in 14th century conclusive?), the Symbolic (the narrative of the Shroud’s complicated destiny through the centuries). The true problem, however, resides in the potential catastrophic consequences for the Church itself if the tests will indicate again that the Shroud is authentic (from Christ’s time and place): there are traces of “Christ’s” blood on it, and some biochemists are already working on its DNA—so what will this DNA say about Christ’s FATHER (not to mention the prospect of CLONING Christ)?
And what about the Jewish assertion of the unconditional iconoclastic monotheism: God is One, totally Other, with no human form? The commonplace position is here that pagan (pre-Jewish) gods were “anthropomorphic” (say, old Greek gods fornicated, cheated, and engaged in other ordinary human passions), while the Jewish religion with its iconoclasm was the first to thoroughly “de-anthropomorphize” divinity. What, however, if things are the exact opposite? What if the very need to prohibit man making the images of God bears witness to the “personification” of God discernible in “Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness” (Genesis 1 :26) – what if the true targets of Jewish iconoclastic prohibition are not previous pagan religions, but rather its own “anthropomorphization”/”personalization” of God? What if Jewish religion itself generates the excess it has to prohibit? In other words, making images has to be prohibited not because of the pagans; its true reason is the premonition that, if the Jews were to do the same as the pagans, something horrible would have emerged (the hint of this horror is given in Freud’s hypothesis about the murder of Moses, this traumatic event on the denial of which the Jewish identity is raised).
In pagan religions, such a prohibition would have been meaningless. Christianity then goes one step further by asserting not only the likeness of God and man, but their direct identity in the figure of Christ: “no wonder man looks like God, since a man [Christ] IS God.” According to the standard notion, pagans were anthropomorphic, Jews were radically iconoclastic, and Christianity effects a kind of “synthesis”, a partial regression to paganism, by introducing the ultimate “icon to erase all other icons,” that of the suffering Christ. Against this commonplace, one should assert that it is the Jewish religion which remains an “abstract/immediate” negation of anthropomorphism, and, as such, attached to it, determined by it in its very direct negation, whereas it is only Christianity that effectively “sublates” paganism.
Thus in iconoclasm Judaism fights ITS OWN EXCESS. That is to say, apropos of the standard opposition between the Cartesian self-transparent subject of thought and the Freudian subject of the unconscious (which is perceived as anti-Cartesian, as undermining the Cartesian “illusion” of rational identity), one should bear in mind that the opposition through which a certain position asserts itself is its own presupposition, its own inherent excess (as is the case with Kant: the notion of diabolical Evil which he rejects is only possible within the horizon of HIS OWN transcendental revolution). The point here is not so much that the Cartesian cogito is the presupposed “vanishing mediator” of the Freudian subject of the unconscious (a thought worth pursuing), but that the subject of the unconscious is already operative in the Cartesian cogito as its own inherent excess: in order to assert cogito as the self-transparent “thinking substance”, one HAS to pass through the excessive point of madness which designates cogito as the vanishing abyss of substanceless thought. And does the same not go for Jewish iconoclasm? It does not prohibit/fight pagan images, but the image-like power of ITS OWN founding gesture. It is the JEWISH God who is the FIRST fully “personalized” God, a God who says “I am who am.” In other words, iconoclasm and other Jewish prohibitions do not relate to pagan Otherness, but to the violence of Judaism’s OWN imaginary excess. In this sense, Christianity—with its central notion of Christ as man-God—simply makes “for itself’ the personalization of God in Judaism. And is this prohibition of images not equivalent to the Jewish disavowal of the primordial crime? In Moses and Monotheism, Freud already implies this ultimate identity: the primordial parricide is the ultimate fascinating image. What, then, does the Christian reassertion of the unique image of the crucified Christ stand for?
So how are Judaism and Christianity related? The standard Judeo-Lacanian answer is that Christianity is a kind of regression to the imaginary narcissistic fusion of the community that forsakes the traumatic tension between Law and sin (its transgression). Consequently, Christianity replaces the logic of Exodus, of an open-ended voyage without any guarantee as to its final outcome, with the messianic logic of the final reconciliation – the idea of the “perspective of Last Judgement” is foreign to Judaism. Along these lines, Eric Santner is fully justified in claiming that, while Judaism is a religion whose public discourse is haunted by the spectral shadow of its obscene uncanny double, of its excessive transgressive founding violent gesture (it is this very disavowed attachment to the traumatic kernel which confers on Judaism its extraordinary chutzpah and durability), Christianity does not possess another, its own, obscene disavowed supplement, but simply has none.” The Christian answer is that, precisely, the tension between the pacifying Law and the excessive superego is not the ultimate horizon of our experience. That is, it is possible to step out of this domain, not into a fake imaginary bliss, but into the Real of an act; it is possible to cut the Gordean knot of transgression and guilt. Antigone is thus effectively the precursor of a Christian figure, insofar as there is no tension whatsoever in her position between Law and transgression, between transgression and guilt, between the unconditional ethical demand and her inadequate answer to it.
So, perhaps, the difference between Judaism and Christianity is, to put it in Schelling’s terms, the difference between contraction and expansion: Jewish contraction (perseverance, enduring in the status of a remainder) lays the ground for the Christian expansion (love). If Jews assert the Law without superego, Christians assert love as jouissance outside the Law. In order to get at jouissance outside Law, not tainted by the obscene superego supplement of the Law, the Law itself has first to be delivered from the grip of jouissance. The position to adopt between Judaism and Christianity is thus not simply to give preference to one of them, even less to opt for a kind of pseudo-dialectical “synthesis,” but to introduce the gap between the enunciated content and the position of enunciation: as for the content of the belief, one should be a Jew, while retaining the Christian position of enunciation.
Herbert Schnaedelbach’s essay ‘Der Fluch des Christentums’ ‘9 provides perhaps the most concise liberal attack on Christianity, enumerating its seven (not sins, but) “birth-blunders”: ( I ) the notion of the original sin that pertains to humanity as such; (2) the notion that God paid for that sin through a violent legal settlement with himself, sacrificing his own son’ s blood; (3) the missionary expansionism; (4) anti-Semitism; (5) eschatology with its vision of the final Day of Reckoning; (6) the import of the Platonic dualism with its hatred of the body; (7) the manipulative dealing with historical truth. Although, in a predictable way, Schnaedelbach puts most of the blame on Saint Paul, on his drive to institutionalize Christianity, he emphasizes that we are not dealing here with a secondary corruption of the original Christian teaching of love, but with a dimension present at the very origins. Furthermore, he insists that—to put it bluntly—all that is really worthwhile in Christianity (love, human dignity, etc.), is not specifically Christian, but was taken over into Christianity from Judaism.
What is perceived here as the problem is precisely Christian universalism: what this all-inclusive attitude (recall Saint Paul ‘s famous “There are no men or women, no Jews and Greeks”) involves is a thorough exclusion of those who do not accept to be included into the Christian community. In other “particularistic” religions (and even in Islam, in spite of its global expansionism), there is a place for others, they are tolerated, even if they are condescendingly looked upon. The Christian motto “All men are brothers,” however, ALSO means that ”Those who are not my brothers ARE NOT MEN.” Christians usually praise themselves for overcoming the Jewish exclusivist notion of the Chosen People and encompassing the entirety of humanity—the catch is here that, in their very insistence that they are the Chosen People with the privileged direct link to God, Jews accept the humanity other people who celebrate their false gods, while Christian universalism tendentially excludes non-believers from the very universality of humankind.
The question nonetheless remains (if such a quick dismissal does not fail to account for the momentous dimension of the Paulinian agape) as to the “miracle” of the retroactive “undoing” of sins through the suspension of the Law. One usually opposes here the rigorous Justice of Judaism and Christian Mercy, the inexplicable gesture of undeserved pardon: we, humans, were born in sin, we cannot ever repay our debts and redeem ourselves through our own acts—our only salvation lies in God’s Mercy, in His supreme sacrifice. In this very gesture of breaking the chain of Justice through the inexplicable act of Mercy, of paying our debt, Christianity imposes on us an even stronger debt: we are forever indebted to Christ, we cannot ever repay him for what he did to us. The Freudian name for such an excessive pressure which we cannot ever remunerate is, of course, superego. More precisely, the notion of Mercy is in itself ambiguous, such that it cannot fully be reduced to this superego agency: there is also Mercy in the sense Badiou reads this notion, namely the “mercy” of the Event of Truth (or, for Lacan, of the act)—we cannot actively decide to accomplish an act, the act surprises the agent itself, and “mercy” designated precisely this unexpected occurrence of an act.
Usually, it is Judaism which is conceived as the religion of the superego (of man’s subordination to the jealous, mighty and severe God), in contrast to the Christian God of Mercy and Love. However, it is precisely through NOT demanding from us the price for our sins, through paying this price for us Himself, that the Christian God of Mercy establishes itself as the supreme superego agency: “I paid the highest price for your sins, and you are thus indebted to me FOREVER.” Is this God as the superego agency, whose very Mercy generates the indelible guilt of believers, the ultimate horizon of Christianity? Is the Christian agape another name for Mercy?
In order to properly locate Christianity with regard to this opposition, one should recall Hegel’s famous dictum apropos of the Sphynx: “The enigmas of the Ancient Egyptians were also enigmas for the Egyptians themselves.” Along the same lines, the elusive, impenetrable Dieu obscur also has to be impenetrable to Himself, He must have a dark side, something that is in Him more than Himself. Perhaps this accounts for the shift from Judaism to Christianity: Judaism remains at the level of the enigma OF God, while Christianity involves the move to the enigma IN God Himself. The Christian logos, the divine Revelation in and through the Word, and the enigma IN God are strictly correlative, the two aspects of one and the same gesture. It is precisely because God is an enigma also IN AND FOR HIMSELF, because he has an unfathomable Otherness in Himself, that Christ had to emerge to reveal God not only to humanity, but TO GOD HIMSELF—it is only through Christ that God fully actualized himself as God.
What is incomprehensible within the pre-Christian horizon is the full shattering dimension of this impenetrability of God to Himself, discernible in Christ’ s “Father, why did you forsake me?”, this Christian version of the Freudian “Father, can’t you see that I am burning?”. This total abandonment by God is the point at which Christ becomes FULLY human, the point at which the radical gap that separates God from man is transposed into God himself. Here, God the Father himself stumbles upon the limit of his omnipotence. What this means is that the Christian notion of the link between man and God thus inverts the standard pagan notion according to which man approaches God through spiritual purification, through casting off the “low” material/sensual aspects of his being and thus elevating himself towards God. When I, a human being, experience myself as cut off from God, at that very moment of the utmost abjection, I am absolutely close to God, since I find myself in the position of the abandoned Christ. There is no “direct” identification with (or approach to) the divine majesty: I identify myself with God only through identifying myself with the unique figure of God-the-Son abandoned by God. In short, Christianity gives a specific twist to the story of Job, the man-believer abandoned by God—it is Christ (God) himself who has to occupy the place of Job. Man’s identity with God is asserted only in/through God’s radical self-abandonment, when the inner distance of God towards himself. The only way for God to create free people (humans) is to open up the space for them in HIS OWN lack/void/gap: man’s existence is the living proof of God’s self-limitation. Or, to put it in more speculative-theological terms: man’s infinite distance from God, the fact that he is a sinful, evil being, marked by the Fall, unworthy of God, has to be reflected back into God himself, as the Evil of God the Father Himself, i.e. as his abandonment of his Son. Man’s abandonment of God and God’s abandonment of his Son are strictly correlative, the two aspects of one and the same gesture.
His divine self-abandonment, this impenetrability of God to himself, thus signals God’s fundamental imperfection. And it is only within this horizon that the properly Christian Love can emerge, a Love beyond Mercy. Love is always love for the Other insofar as he is lacking—we love the Other BECAUSE of his limitation, helplessness, ordinariness even. In contrast to the pagan celebration of the Divine (or human) Perfection, the ultimate secret of the Christian love is perhaps that it is the loving attachment to the Other’s imperfection. And THIS Christian legacy, often obfuscated, is today more precious than ever.
Boatmans call. First line of song into my arms. Dont believe in intervening god.
Wish at times I was more easily intervened — cud lit tings go — or go at with free will — had to fight with old gods to free my brain — because they terrorize my skin — Ends me up in the middle somewhere —
The Angelic Function. Oh, déranger in French means rearrange or disturb arrangement — but not it appears that thing hording dementia — As holy causes generating thru with wild lyrical appropriation of meaning, of death, horror, heartbreak and nothingness —
Entry into sweeneys garden great escape to la lang bang? trees of green turning into a holy cow —
Madness runs through Sweeney Astray, its the first semimodern coda re the mad thing (other than dionysian) predates shakespeare.
Forced by life into becoming conventional — broke every bone in my heart — Now its a massive relief just to “hang in there” — ?
Twas “this” a change up proceeding from interventional wisdom — yuh — up from well of time in time (not genealogy of time out of time) —Index is part of the thank you part.
In Pronoun Shifters Working Title fiction am editing at moment — find myself stealing “permission” to pursue limpid (clear and bright) phrasing from Nick Cave — especially when trying to clarify the counterintuitive — where neutralizes absurd and remedies beauty — as find so often “subprocessed” in The Red Hand Files —
Albiet my story incorporates sense v nonsense — as a narrative fig, you know Lewis Carroll and Jorge Luis Borges — tho with an American strangeness almost makes me think a bit of Hitchcock (even tho he was a Brit) —
Anyhow, suddenly some broader truth steals in on what am looking into and find myself efforting to “nick” it, to capture it in a way that reads clear but also luminous.
Brother was first enemy.
Ow. Falling is time, it falls in on me. His bloodwork fills skies. Hobbit not one for moving. Moving. Oh swords kids angry jet
Fret bet dimmmm. Heart of warrior, chases the heart.
Death takes a bath here — its everything. Cant make sense of it. slobbering dwarf of sorrow. Grief is wild. Hard and shard. Kicking dirt.
Dont lead dog into a dead end
Chinese fortune cookie last night. Dont lead dog into a dead end.
Brother didnt think much of marm, invasion of joyces bouncing white balls on sylls vampire
marm as an oar. in its thore, lock. Cervantes accosts in a rage —
After the Fall
He paid a lot for me and took me everywhere he went. I was lost from life. Even sleeping ravaged me. Madness was a blanket of black light. He gave me his family.
Still breaking down into sobs, every 7th of 7th.
Pain of loss wearing into me eating at me. Beasts abuzz with mourning.
Poet puppets, all down in basement, smoking cigarettes boozed up tearing in at dead, wake up wake up, tears fall. Love is endless.
As comes the melting snow, a pile on. Where hate grows a gorgeous head, beckoning bait grows sate with dead. Picture a fat trout on dry dock. Eye opened dead. Promises Promises.
Lets do fish and chips. Growl, agree to disagree, and gently sip.
Back on the burner chewing and angry and spitting and beautiful and teasing and torrid and — quiet and sober and instructional, my sweet pink confines of the grouse, screaming as a bird I am fucking useless. Sorry I am sorry…
Where heart howls and digs in to join with destiny, whatever the outcome! As opening for sun thru fingers to tell time with, and love and death clocks me a new one —
Wrestles again with brutal emptiness, and its beauty banters lovingly with fate. Love equals hate, language is fate. License fumes with triumph.
Pigs kneel sword in quest — thou be the call of the “useless,” my painterly useless, bright as morning snow. Escape through that hatch into nothing nothing NOTHING and there I go.
Negs’ inter rotational peg leg swings right round, life closing in on the “possible,” turns poof into magic, and disappears behind curtain.
Where flows the incendiary cosmos. Beckons me “ill?” Oh back in the nill?
Catch it in the pinky. Err I toss! Zenons carry over cooking. Et tu? now a carry over. Yes thankfully.
How does that feel?
Full. Full of it! Budding roots of prime and evil. Thing the thing up against brittle potent endless call of love and death, screams — demise the wails, sorrows’ entails, tanning flume of beauty preening at hair for scope in lieu-lieus cotton candy fluffs at cat nail in foot dementia.
Transforms ill into oil. Negs are a kind of floating comical dimentia. Itself being the point. Says who?
Oh, yeah — Camus.
Once let be drawn — to what peers out from side! the run off generally runs for me into something of a looming wild eyed plunger-with-an-abyss, of horror and of love — which found both ludicrous and shocking.
And once baited & hooked, dreams then screams — stupid teams to unravel where “collects” — strange babble kind of holy rite, to work through, as warthog through mysterious bramble.
What time there finds (and night raids) — also maniac for beauty — compoundedly gets sucked into rhyme, beat beat beats after — all can do to avoid is nothing! but flick a fingah at the “void.”
And Nick Cave’s advice: Stop fighting it!
Let feed on blooming nutgrass and pinweed — not be afraid to work at it, to let it compound.
Quotes from File 003 found especially helpful:
“desperate over-egged metaphors and lunatic, pencil-snapping, last-ditch attempts at something, my God, anything – “
“hard-won experience that within this pile of words something mysterious is going on… takes its own sweet time… “
“guy who turns up to hold the pencil – and that suddenly, without warning… have taken one line of no consequence and attached it to another line of no consequence and a kind of reverberation begins between the two lines, a throbbing – or as I like to call it, a shimmering –“
And of others where fortune favors brave — this ruc hides a-ride alongside. To steady waves. Particularly where share tender effascination for catching —
“lines [that] pulsate… collect significance impossibly… load up with meaning…”
“…desperate over-egged metaphors and lunatic, pencil-snapping, last-ditch attempts at something, my God, anything – you have learned to hold fast Stealing triggers something metamorphic —
He said, describing the Creative Process.
Surfaces like discovery sudden pile on treasure isle.
Whats behind or under, what feelie wheelie reveals up from the muse -ic, and yet its a prick with a strange noble kick to it — its blatantly informative, challenging, it compels.
Stealing for me means that something in my humanity has gotten caught there, dares out of these hidden spells — the shell of unknowing — doesnt just hear it but sees it coming out of itself in me.
Beats slip into counts and the reboants are hungery devouts in bouts, still neednt be so destructive because its sharing in feast of expression and what that means to the work — becomes a wild thing, a smoky heap.
Where sifts grifts uplifts, where deaths brutal sacrificial porn itself hangs out to dry, on peg by the negs, bounteous treachurous negs.
Yes they still fascinate like spies digging for plants.
The Submits. Sublits. The Regenerates. AKA: Chummies and slaveys, Joyces words.
Stealing is love, its meeting up with the goon show to caboose loose truce sway stray lay on swing on porch and poach the instrument. Theres so much I dont know somehow.
Not just distortion but a raving ghostly blindness that inhabits the flux — which is from Newton.
Receiving fluxes from Newton — picturesque up comes char — calling her Did Eye On — there she goes caught by fumes Newtons super meta physical ferocious gloom, Newton was a nut crackers suite — in his way — Did Eye On pulls up to beach in sports car —
Lays down in the sun under brellie, and watching the ocean move about reads — mathematically inquisitive histories about discoveries of Newton — because the numbers for emptiness pulled her in, over by the Submits?! searching for flimsies where again and again fantasy Adams would say livery broke into Poe pump kins —
Tragic wings, 13th hour solutions. As if numbers would protect her from scoping downwind — Its tied to love where inhabits the mystery of “vous”.
Luminous quotes from 007 —
“Dread grief trails bright phantoms …
Are ideas [themselves] essentially…
Stun… imaginations reawakening calamity.
Their impossible and ghostly hands … draw us back … unimaginably changed.”
HI — find death runs through like an obstacle course. Moments it brings on — stun and shock into an awareness that hears and sees things that are and are not there (comes from philosophy — the there/not there). Feels more ancient than accident, a sudden sound of flapping birds, visionary bleeds thru in ruptures — where needs must grieve, for acceptance, realignment, mourn the slain.
Personally (and professionally) am again and again unimaginably changed by deaths that could not foresee nor escape. And yet right at edge of it lies an awareness that is pivotal — like the courage and heartbreak of love, despite all else —
Yesterday wad gonna finally sendy russell agan — had this winderful focus on sense of it fir an hour — then shirl hula hoopd and versé ( verser means to pour in fr) joyce jammed against ziz and dyna aka came out of shower togetgher and split a forkwidth my red meat — hi👋 know have prob wobbles with sep her rations its like riding a wavelength blurs “rational” measures of distance on timeline into points irrational — which are factoid many more — and extensions flame permeates bileaf in freedom steeples of madness (fissures and mobius aka love and death) hex posed inny on outy but tis marm that gave “chair” enuff to sit on — cause promotion of in itself curved the feather back toward jj — kind a cometing a circle hmm — nit to lv redd out mix hat all 4 therefrom pen sued — De lila de lish — #whimperwill #halfwayhouse #backonhorse #notimeouts #left
feel like have to set up habenue for writing itself to emerge — em rem saying to get char need word nerd isa bird to alight with “cups” — its how everyone does it — started rereading finally colette peignot in French heffta finning 501 — its working reasonably well she has what clarice is after but more filmy — wheras clarice is mmiracle mud not as nostalgia de la bou but both are bodies coming out of woodwork / they both admit its what heart up to
#breakthru on #enemything illusion is not the same as delusion. delusion is kisses from burroughs & beckett as charms, as there is flue wherefor from yonder context originally got from Dynamite (& Sweeney bird in tree) focused on symmetries. then alice became embarked on “absurd” in numbers — like ancient greeks & the immeasurable. math must be acknowledged as something else because it is. when connection to surface got blitzed focused “turned on” – “registers” themselves as enemies — killing off “spirit venture” absurd got stolen by “rituals of sacrificial tragic” embedded in religious tartism. Alice tried blow up 1 after another cracking thru to emptiness of “freedom” at points of gesture, then finds focus at “the bends” & starts running neck & neck w/ um toirtoise & hare everywhere, la lang bang explodes any possibility for totals, nothing totals, punked by skunkwrks w/ Lowell & grapple frantically with “frontier’ — mann eats joyce! but clarice “at other level” desperately vows loves it. Marm now serves to access “clarity” below surface (where bees thrive) -er something. one finds where exists because is a vehicle for sharing in way no other quite composts. frozen forces it. as would love take out for tin as had always managed that prior to alice. tho violet loves brinks. maybe gone forever. Or perhaps there are further turnative ways of “inking” about it havent found yet due to delusionary points of trauma and how love for “it” is so crammed in thick that at points of pleasure start running any direction, see what trips over it — part of me profoundly hates. But outside of that, cog knee sense “ferry fared” is base for it is cyclical is (riotously even) superb. Gives me method better anywhere prior tried. Which I did. But they didn’t “break out” hives lockets charms marm, whim tin tin, venging nerfs agin violence dotting between genet nietzsche batailled — which sum of us swoons thru body as sensation (like music). Some is guru some is for friendship in the “mystery” some is for vue do me thinks for to manage the “intensity. hm #aliceinwonderland
Teaching doing stuff like these next up comin into view — drawing helps me paint here thru eords as textures — not other way around — #girlypictures — drawing process — syv and clarice did also — clarify cr didnt sketch she used painter girl like mann -/ cd i let go nuff hold on nuff to man age the mix masters and make marm char pynch font hold on go inder — she is bunter for barnacle and winch — hi👋 dont know — see “here!!” “It”coming closer on eork — ohhh want to push farther want bitta buck and fork — say frou and froufrou — moments terror sooths too — opens up “backside” — porn is only one register — what 3-4 — can only do with you —- all the bucks say duck 🦆 — but goyles all shake head — nono its beauty being in love however eats itself to sleep — tender stupid sifting thru heavy larva — and nit bring eaten by it — but veing able to mmm afford it — violeys outside all ur doira smoking u wrapping the twisr in hand paci g but not angry or explosive (turned out to be alie hifi tho ) dyna is fine is girls on film and vukor — light in august suddenly laughter in the pahk — gawk hawk stawks realm hi 👋 odd eye sea her ypur help at line where music meets the wave 👋 — just jotting #milkfrommorningcow
Silence ring-sting hover e vokes h untcertainty — bumble s tumbles in, h ale iss bubles up fone — fan tango whoooz and the joy jetty is slippery — infernal colonial — ail bee it burns hole in skull at skin in fin itudes riot — but is really a sadness? in fectual fugitive honhestyburns into row row ridhi coocoo(hello) lust — wired up in wrings of deth (#girlsonfilm Beth) -/ camille penseur (de rodin) of nugitivity — back on rim bow bridge wanting to “make a diff film” -/ trans forms honeyeasiness hint to as sass sins who are goddesses that cut my throat (ohh and heart comes out) #scissorrsandstrings #beginningsof #something #girlsonfilm #camille #marm #teatok #paglia #ghostbusters #makesparklers
#marm sooohepful — gave me gift of gab — to swoon like — like in becketts letters — where he mischievously works thru “particles” — Dunk drunk bunny M for marvelust over la lang bang — shame shame shame, fool for love — cares less about pubbing than meeting in the parking lot — and the egayer wysteria beauty and batshi that accompagner — marcus loopius – vousvoyer love that word #camillepaglia #kathyacker #williamburroughs #jamesjoyce #williamshakespeare #hughkennar #marcelproust #samuelbeckett #virginiawoolf
Its #iffanyfilms #dustneversettle #marmfarm #joyceischoice With pa king add an r — park king -/ bee wannas tink bout bunny diifisill in new ways (like it pays) — marm has invaded the farm its a thru thing, it comes thru — it comes thru others whos “beauty” re freshes the presh — joyce knew this wally says bow wow how — flip clip slip pornadorn spamcomm ninety percent from russia — tie ups on a machine like a ventilator — hack stack and wack call them rim rhymes — threesies sixies — in book on rhetoric where lists: all diff ways achever the bountful — chains i love doing word chains
Cut piece from bo8 in half and finished in fiction complete with a light lift to materiality — books are in it as la lang bang marcel popups hi👋 call them — above are called math snakez – — i wann send it to russell —just ssk ig he k iw anyehere might submit called soft dpot in acedemm ish ho✌🏽brow — even tho its a gurkin off scene — uses cones yahhhhh but are open undetneath — not so withput ex chng the bless out blissing on the “dice” = nash counters then and end ip out in virge of purge dirging to — cal from lorwl is math guy — a streamer -/ chair and molt — the pessoa curves love you for that — the squittels ate out on cook cocka doo and genet shows up for you i wont stop it now ok pilo yah its the sky is drowning thing on me so cap out to catch it — omorrow is a lot /// after that home burrowing into work its festering with ig note thank love thank miss miss again — its mudercsings its klers eye batty and i know it too — stomach twists at it — monkey 🐒 and buddhas poison arrow — immunity — ““steam trunks” in movie adopted — technology la lang — so odd and deddy which hepps me situate it here as i do t know iz — lime swift and knoves little perps — or something and fir me that is big love. 🐝 loves it — working stound it is somethinh z consating grace room to rurn over grave more than lif itself but not really that was a lie i lovd as well real here as that sanctuary cam wrestle in with angels and wanda — frightening thst it swallowed me kills and vengy hitchrd to the cock ?? — luekla taljs anout it toohswaiian —fiction winfds around pilon — workabke extensions adopted lotta lang from vous all as synth — msjes auch differencr for the eanda wannas who flam with pam // i wd pub soft spot — its tight and gas wallscevpynch pane and churchy — but that forelock morelock -/ the other working on befor — is not bad either — using sn old tool on it — the i ams extant way back snarfed of one of u //
Ohhh his dying is in my body — knocking me back — so scared will take me too before can finish anything — pisses me off — bourroughs shows up and puts hand on my shoulder to absorb deaths shock — mystic dreams it is releasing deaths want of vengeance upon me — who thinks like that anymore — makes me laff
There is horror iini my work it travaels thru it –/ always has — but it is dreamy too hallucinagenic marbled and thickly — every once in while light finds it sings thru it — beauty breaks thru the garble — in flashes —
Foot made of carrot bunny goes up to snowman and eats nose —— editing is also about working around issues that are dualities burning with flowers they compose — rims bows — marcel moves in and i just listen now see what drawn out of hose — thats a relief — to “find” itself by searching for it —marm and all
i see pilons as support so i can edit even — they edit me // kfyuuu dyuu see — sherry lovesit — gulls sink the first think “dry land” — is thirsty — help me see what am looking at — editing previous piece on cal about jetking off sort of — now split into two -/ not rewriting editing -/ char let loose as emouvant embroiders with fins mackeral lines -/ sylls have a qwal of mud — yet there can be found sweetnes in beweens where boarders hailucy nation — why then of love as a fungus always fall on my sponge — acceptance death of a loved one is grueling honestly — it must be done
Buoys — in sea of hunger sorrow and what taint and smelled of madness — caught like feet in tar —mind staggered at time falling through to “emptiness” without bottom — had to create a kind of structure for it -/ not beckett not fishface kisses to head of migrating dead but but but here — among us — could would possibly get around “sharp corners” “come thru to” — as a kind of clearing — the knife has always been an “easy lay” — in plume hates vitals burning with shock and dis may affray — stuffing down another dick shin narry free the cube but comes up cornered and endless love -/ again brother was warrior too — 7 and fighting over his weaknesses and mine asleep in scitland — yesterday imploded with the unforgotten -/ mourning vis sis i tude rage against time head a walking wound polly reading wharton for brothers eul ? — home nxt week — sherry thinks of vousvoyer protection its instinctive i am a polly anna panda Holding horses yell out horses love shade — without it i am impossible — need every thing its imposdpble what ?? death smiles — mars fars bars scars puddling i yhink pyscalls call it — my head is shrinking — something loves it — languor of fear umyum vampires issue is screw with tendrils turning stop ho back go lizzy busy Fizzy fixed on thro flo to narrow at pulling head up i couldnt my switches snapping tripping napping — nothing real anymore sticks to it — its oceanic and thats what should horn in on scratch face see me as forgotten face breath out — little knives but smaller now strange absurd how dwarfs against sun wind like safty pins i know yet with humor init it sublimes the flame into listening this without not laughing i hold dear to leashes — pecher has from the french three distinct meanings — sin, peach snd fishingContinue reading
Sulks mulcts widely for plow and slurr — and above it all keeps the fur mur cur tailed about the fleures de litters
I hunter stand
its absorption release wire pyre choir now as part of doing business
Answerable is what ? Showing up ?
I meet — I do not just show up —
Its a nashville believe it or not — other wise open to the meltway — ask dyna I shant mess with it —
Not victim about it — writer free to heads in with any spill fill nill kill or cut ups —
Outside of “our” cuts, seem to be on a new multi track —
Holy ferns not anything like cuts really– and poems stay close to trad rhyme time because its right there for me, its syvie off to the shoot outs! And, narratives are plumb after freedom clares fact finding for immediacies and correlates.
Hi has imposed a liquidation of beautiful contempt — had to establish specific boundaries from its hells bells — great golden rot gut them neg nog loopy poison acres.
That said, thanks to cutters gutters and the mutterers, writing remains open — t’woo ly, to just about anything.
Examining the char tar in the rep landia — for keep it simple stupid, listen listen, steal from its wavy funny scathing runny sweet fill pill skill for the nill, riddling with my hummingbird, touché.
Then fry brain under flaps into Night Bussiness with Camille and Zizek and set that frought caught naught out on skin of teeth. The bee hi Homer, bee hi Bloom. It makes pretty. Not one day. This. Bow before pear a mitts. Full sweep. Meet me for mints.
Writing involves my body. Sub rub. Hub. Bubbles up in the mystery misery fly of ranting panting haunting flaunting. Slant thing in porn registries shifts, shifts up — as an escape into survival — teaming with bodies in void and time. And presence turns under restless banal kite blight skull with mud thugs Becketts holy hats and Russian bed bugs.
I dont want to resist the cartoon fervors.
GO tell — Dos toy heff ski.
Greed, need — reads off top of skull — digs in against the bone under skin like an ice picker, how to unravel the mud packets into a repetition — versiforming maneuvers as jiggly for the What.
Bow. Ow ow ow. Ho off of pie sighing high and nigh.
Encourage ment is thankfull. I am an idiot full of prayer. Even if saying that causes Ibsen to rub deaths against violets soul beware beware.
Yea’s. With much ado, still managing to keep furries purring against legs. Nose first. Even biting now is — that. Is play. Near where theatre meets against immediacy of music.
And the crime against mercy — hacked (to death) back in sacred jettison, where rhyme engulfed the druids —
For em’s merge agency, pry vatic dicks. For a more gender fluid ness? Or because it means love that’s all.
Love can seduce to any point — on mob eye us flow be us, and still claim meaning. One of the Wally’s in the wall yells yes that’s “breadth.”
Breathes meaning into being and gives chance for continuity. Full admission how I stole permission, for grim Gretta, hat in hand and bike riding for jokes, against waves of horror, devoured in ditch of little nell, liza dodo bird — Girl LDL.
Liz do little mad pies — still festers on eyelids.
Gretta peddles off, singing “I love you, take me to your to circus collar.” Yes all are at peace (against your dick).
Night lighting with french dictionaries and usage. Because it associates, repeaters lists of words where shared — etymology is over fifty percent shared am finding in 501 of those basics thar.
Which, at night, after book is closed, try to pry into memory alphabetically, through what am now calling: the hole in skull —
Creatives are convinced hole in skull was a benefit from angels — that indeed things got so bad, hi needed a drill.
When hard hats buried heart in wretched ditch with foot and gun. Lost to efforts mining pining lining rioting after — la lang bang, monkey crunching on animal bone. Turning it to powder!
By the neck many hungry ghosts swung. Intimately.
And now further bred, from intimacy, into multiple frameworks.
Present tensers sacred jolts of meaning that purge merge beauty with annex dotes — rotating through love death, and all those sweet violent folds “the gods gave me” — scattered, battered (they always thinks it flattery but here one thinks it’s not, it’s light and shine on beauty part –) being taken into absurds’ lengths for words —
Creates the vigilant map it sure.
Urgency then, and is now. Clarice goes after intimacy of now. Pound drops through now — to history that is an always present now. Says Flaubert’s parrot. Without writing, I’d not find a way to capture these delicacies.Continue reading
MERCY ON THE PERCY
I have a “crib” and it evolves all the time when courtesy prescribes a gift. Emile was a gift! It happens where it happens.
Its more important to Percy than publishing. Em stems thrive on in a way thats bold and rigid. Outward bound she is rigged.
But I am perhaps closer to Percy now. And Percy did publish. And was privately published in a way that was public re crib. What created Percy wasn’t publishing everything in his lifetime but his most important pieces reached their destination the “thought be thou” hexchange of goods — and that publishing even as much as he did, gave him further sight to and of course then came Mary. Like Vincents sister in law.
But his brook always exceeded fitting in. There is Blake-ness in Percy.
“The bends” can now think of as instrument! As held in bit and blown through. I also see as eternal flame. Ha.
And wood. Wood isn’t just pecker or anything but it is, as tree has relation to bone. Allegory is phasm, and the language of it. Poets rights Becketts kites Burroughs dirigibles, raving babbles the brook historical in perçuite of flow snow bark park lark stark Colette’s Parker, hoe go rowrow–
Variations on allegory are great for switches and to underline as does Rimbaud. In a way thats casual and intimate. And mocks including himself into the grotesque where beauty rides up against, plunges lunges hexpunges, as crow fly flow. I am after its variations. OMG his variations. Give room to hemorrhage, blood against bone. Is beauty in the defiance of death — in rushes of hungry madness sees as death itself.
But Allegory I dont go looking for — as much as, for it to come looking for me, when crops up suddenly midst hexcavating — means I am Charlie Chan Nelle-ing in context. Afterward: comes the tremors, after pulling head out of my pissing in beloved sandbox. In the hold (brig a dune), makes me wild eyed.
Tremble with slutness rutness abutt-ness for deep cut-ness, the marve to carve, the micky land jello — menaces swings in and defiles ? the hardness. Even Fitz admits, perfume for something of the savage gruesome, lore horror and bore — the banal resists being disqualified ?
Piano man : the loan ious punk crows through its trunk, as carries on its back (Beckett called his writing the trunk) scavenging in the most un likely ways for patterns — For la lang hitting it bang bang, sordid plaintive limpid ravishing, salvaging the mayhem from guinea worm disease, my dracunculiasis —Continue reading
Watt will not
abate one jot
but of what
of the coming to
of the being at
of the going from
of the long way
of the short stay
of the going back home
the way he had come
of the empty heart
of the empty hands
of the dim mind wayfaring
through barren lands
of a flame with dark winds
of the empty heart
of the empty hands
of the dark mind stumbling
through barren lands
that is of what
Watt will not
abate one jot
Red Hand Files Index is a honeydo for help I got on something.
Latest on Top
202 “The kid drops his bucket and spade / And climbs into the sun.” What is your creative process?
201 Who do you want to win Love Island? What would you say is the major difference between you and Susie?
200 So, the next Red Hand File is #200! I just feel so fucking empty.
199 Do you have a safe space? How would you describe it?
198 God is Love, but Love gets weird.
197 What are your thoughts on free speech? For fuck’s sake, enough of the God and Jesus bullshit!
195 I just wanted to send my heartfelt condolences on the tragic loss of Jethro. Much love to you and all your family.
194 I’ve recently been grappling with the concept of determinism and the implications it has on morality. How many people deserve writing credits when every single person alive (and who has ever lived before) has ultimately resulted in “your” finished song?
193 If you were an animal, what do you think you would be and what would you like to be? I would probably be a sloth and would like to be a tortoise.
192 I understand that you keep an office separate for your creative work. Do you have any recommendations on how I can create a sacred space?
191 I just heard about Chris Bailey’s death. Can you tell us something about what he meant to you?
190 I’m losing faith in other people, and I’m scared to pass these feelings to my little son. Do you still believe in Us (human beings)?
189 Have you ever met Nicolas Cage? Do you add untrue component to a story to make more interesting?
188 The Red Hand Files is the best thing in the whole wide world. Why do you hate hats?
187 I was that nameless father, alone in my own post-apocalyptic world, of Cormac McCarthy’s ‘The Road’. I’m taking my daughter to see you and Warren on March 9th.
186 Ukrainian situation. Palestinian suffering.
184 Australia has turned into a hermit kingdom throughout Covid. Can you please tour here ASAP, so our sorry souls have something to look forward to? We need you.
183 When I watch you play live my soul is lifted but I am not sure what that even means. It feels religious! What is the soul? See you in Montreal!
182 If you could live forever (and remain healthy in body and mind) would you do it? Where do we find meaning in life?
181 How or when or do you shut the voices of all your influences – to believe that what you create is your own?
180 What is the utility of suffering? Do you have any advice for dealing with demonic possession?
179 What is your favourite poem? How much influence do your friends have?
178 Do you have hope? What does Christmas mean to you?
177 I’m 17 years old, what can you tell me about love? How do I not have my heart broken?
176 I’m sixteen and have just recently gotten really into your work. What advice would you give to your sixteen year old self and why?
175 The Truth is that I betrayed the very essence of my soul and no knowledge can heal that wound. Is like constantly moving in the fog with nowhere to go or be.
174 Is it important to have friends? How important is friendship for your creativity?
173 Have you been resting up since the tour? Can you send us any new writing?
172 What’s the thing with the squirrel you and Susie adopted? What did you end up calling the squirrel?
171 When did you write “Heart That Kills You”? Why did you leave Brighton? Where do you live now?
170 I just saw ‘The Electrical Life of Louis Wain’ at a local film festival. What made you want to take on the part?
169 How do you keep managing to do The Red Hand Files on tour? I saw you at the Royal Albert Hall on the second night. The concert of my life. So intense.
168 ‘Lavender Fields’, how did you compose such a beautifully deep, sad and uplifting song with this simple metaphor? What is ‘Lavender Fields’ about?
167 Quote recently from Susie. “To be honest, I find the word muse to be a little demeaning.” What do you think about that?
166 Happy Red Hand File Anniversary! Three Years! why did you start The Red Hand Files?
165 The Flaming Lips made with a 13-year old fan of theirs on vocals. What do you think of the idea?
164 Do you work out before you go on tour? The news of Charlie Watt’s death is terribly sad. I was wondering if you felt any kinship to him.
162 Are you going to take the Covid vaccine? Can you tell us anything about the late, great Hal Willner? I know you have worked with him.
160 Nick. Am Scottish. Am no very well with the alcohol. Rehab soon. Please. Nick. Am so scared. I’m not well. Stagger Me!
159 Do you feel that you share more than your first name with Drake? I’ve always felt some sort of relation between you and Nick Drake.
158 Not a question but just thank you for actually loving my favourite female poet, Stevie Smith. ‘Oblivion’ has always been my story.
157 As a quite handsome man, how did you pull Mrs Cave? What is your favourite dinosaur? Can you recommend a female poet I should read?
156 Do you think it is more important to find inspiration or to get to work and write? What’s it like to write a song?
155 I heard your song, Carnage. Such a beautiful sad song. What is Carnage about?
154 I read you said “They should stop reading Bukowski.” We call upon the author to explain.
153 I’m struggling a bit with the fact I’m turning 40 in a week. What is your perspective on getting old?
151 I’m writing to you on behalf of my Aunt Marnie as she can’t. She’s consumed by grief. She lost her only child, Tristan, to a stroke, aged 49. How can we start to bring our Aunt Marnie back?
149 Should we separate the artist from the art? What is your definition of hope?
148 Thank you for sending her to me! Thus far I don’t speak dragon – it seems like her needs, even her entire being, are directly on the surface!
147 What is the utility of suffering? Carrying suffering around, like some mind-numbing, soul crushing weight?
144 Is it you, that stepped into the vortex just 10 minutes ago? Happy Birthday BAD SEED TEE VEE and thank you so much.
143 Do you ever suffer from self-doubt? A girl was falling in love with me, and while she courted me, she shared a part of herself which was you.
142 I am reading Camille Paglia’s ‘Break, Burn, Blow.’ Which poems are your favourites. Got any Warren stories?
141 You mentioned in Issue #140 that you have been writing poems. Can you send us one? Also: I am twenty-five and feel ancient. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. What is it like?
140 Any plans for Carnage? I saw Warren say the songs came together over two and a half days. How does that feel. To be working at that level of intensity with someone.
139 My dad passed away a couple of weeks ago and we gave him an Elvis themed funeral. My dad passed away a couple of weeks ago and we gave him an Elvis themed funeral. What songs would you like played at your own funeral? What songs would you like played at your own funeral?
138 I read the Mark Mordue biography ‘Boy On Fire’ recently. I’m always interested in people’s stories and often ponder how and why some people’s voices get to be heard whereas others don’t. Do you reflect on this at all? How important is talent?
137 In lockdown, how did you find the impetus to start something as monumental as Carnage? Who is Thomas H? The song White Elephant is dedicated to?
136 I have been reading Tolstoy’s ‘The Gospel in Brief’ and wondered if you had read this short book. What does Christ mean to you?
134 I am off the acid, not for any particular reason. So I hid them in a jar of Vegemite.
132 I want to thank you for releasing Live at Alexandria Palace and especially for playing those Boatman’s Call songs. What were you disgusted by back then?
131 This world is shit. What is your process?
130 How do you know when you have written something worthwhile? Is shitty art worth making?
128 What the fuuuuuuuuuck????? Cancelled tour noooooo.
126 Hey first I wanna say really like your music i have lost my beautiful wife in cancer and my dear brother in covid 19. My question to you is how keep you going on after lost your son its hard sometimes to keep going on with life.
125 Do you like haiku poetry? What are your thoughts about John Cooper Clarke?
122 In this time of illness, cynicism and cruelty, do you receive many mean or vile messages? How do you cope with that kind of negative energy?
121 In an interview from 1997 in Los Angeles, you introduced us to your “pet theory”: your creativity could only flourish in a state of loss and longing, and that it needed catastrophes in your life. Do you still believe that?
120 What do you think about NA? As a recovering heroin addict, I am having difficulty getting into the Narcotics Anonymous scene. Do you have any more advice for a recovering heroin user?
119 I was thinking how much I wish I could write this story to you in Greek, my native language. In June one of my best friends suddenly died aged 46.
118 I’m thinking about having a child but everything looks so grim right now. It looks like your website is censoring people who ask about Israel.
116 Nina Simone once said: Freedom means having no fear. Sometimes on stage, she added, she would reach that kind of state. How do you free yourself from fear?
114 If, for decades, an anchor served a ship, which one day decided to cut its chains and sail away, can the drowning anchor grow wings? And if so, will the anchor always be burdened by the weight of having been used?
113 On The Lyre of Orpheus, the track Breathless moves me beyond words. In the intro every time I hear it I’m taken to a 14th or 16th century style ensemble. Is that the intention or can you explain where that comes from?
112 I spent the day watching Bad Seed TeeVee and the fan cover versions of your songs are amazing. How will you choose a winner?
111 I think you’ll be touched by this story, and the part you play in it. Please take a look.
109 What is mercy for you? What do you think of cancel culture?
107 Part 3. Why don’t you just buy your own fucking piano, you cheap c**t.
107 Part 2. No more mails to Fazioli please.
107 The piano you played for Idiot Prayer was magnificent. Was it a personal instrument?
106 I lost someone in the last year. I thought it was fine. It was a gentle passing. Now shapes and echoes resound. I feel a presence that comes and goes. How to understand the experience of loss. It’s not something I could negotiate with.
102 Do you ever look back at your anthology and wish you had been more overtly politically outspoken in your art? I love your music and its ability to relate common suffering, as you have discussed in the past.
100 If you would have a gold ring made that your son would inherit one day, what would you have engraved inside the ring? I am currently having a ring made that I want my son to have after my day.
099 I feel that our identity is a patchwrk of desires, choices, affiliation, eccentricity. What do you personally look for in an artist?
098 Sometimes in the morning in order to rouse my spirits, I plug into my amp and play very distorted guitar and drown my world in sound. However, the cat that sleeps in my room is very put out by this.
097 I recently stumbled across your interview in GQ “THE LOVE AND TERROR OF NICK CAVE” and was impressed by your brutal honesty. Are you that honest with yourself?
096 Last evening I spent some time watching the mesmerizing Bad Seed TeeVee and I learned that the Night raid line “I slid my little songs out from under you” was actually written years before. Could you write something more about its origin and how it found its way into this particular song?
095 After the sudden and tragic death of our beautiful son, brother recommended not to listen to ‘Ghosteen’.Found it comforting and consoling but am still struggling. I am 16 weeks and three days in at losing my child, how did Susie and yourself find peace with your agonising grief?
094 I recently read that the band Rising Signs believed ‘Palaces of Montezuma’ plagiarized their 2005 song, ‘Grey Man.’ I think one of many reasons I love ‘Palaces’ is that it reminds me, if anything, of the intro to ‘Theme From Mad Flies, Mad Flies’ by The Laughing Clowns from 1982.
092 A Prayer to who? Mystery that exists at the edge, Tears and Revelation.
091 I’ve been listening to Bob Dylan’s new song for most of the day. I can’t shake it. I think it might be a masterpiece. Do you like it?
090 What are your plans for the corona pandemic? What do you intend to do to fill the time?
089 What do we do now? Our new world ‘a ghost ship.’
088 Please give us a hint on the tour in regards of the Corona virus. What is the latest you know?
086 Do you ever feel the need to change lyrics which may be problematic in 2020? For example “a fag in a whalebone corset dragging his dick across my cheek”?
085 Who is the ‘Girl in Amber’? What is the story behind this song?
084 Do you often think of the circumstances of your death? Tell us a joke.
083 Have you ever considered playing in far away countries in Middle East or somewhere? You have a fanbase here in Iran.
082 I just met a guy who has completely the opposite political beliefs to me but I really like him. Are we doomed? The Sensational Alex Harvey Band are the uncrowned kings of 70’s rock. Do you agree?
081 Do you need to be hurt or mentally ill to be a great artist? What makes a great song?
080 I’m currently emulating your rock n’ roll persona in a Nick Cave tribute band. I dress up like you and in a shamanistic way recreate your live performances…
078 Please tell us everything you can about the song ‘Hollywood’. Do you think that your songs tell the future?
077 What is your feeling about Christmas? We are photons released from a dying star.
076 Would you say humour is an important aspect of your writing? Who has inspired your humour? Who in your band is the funniest?
075 what is Ku Klux furniture? Have you ever reached the same highs when sober as when you were on some sort of lovely substance?
073 Many people have remarked that Ghosteen is a sad album, but I don’t think it is at all. We both felt moved by its brightness and gentle optimism.
071 Don’t you get sick and tired of people asking dumb ass questions? I have come to believe that the right question is what we are really searching for.
070 Can you please pay for the Transcendental Meditation course for me? It’s really fucking expensive.
069 How do I stop fearing the end of the world? Do you practice meditation?
068 What is shyness? What was your first date with your wife like?
065 I cannot see anything positive in my body. Feel like everyone is better than me, even though I did very important things for being just 16 years old. How should I behave?
064 Do you have any regrets as you get older? I even feel guilty for having regrets.
059 My girlfriend refuses to read any of my writing. Because she always sees some hint of infidelity, resentment, or perhaps madness in it.
057 Why did you give up on your relationship with PJ Harvey in the 90s? I had a real hard time with your music until The Boatman’s Call.
056 What is the song ‘Rings of Saturn’ about? Is this song about evolving?
055 Do you believe in signs? My husband died some years ago but I feel him all around.
054 I recently received a pair of ‘Bad Seed’ tube socks as a birthday present. What are your thoughts on the merchandising of art?
053 Who are your favourite guitarists? When was the last time you felt a sense of pride (in yourself)?
051 Geppetto (Pinocchio’s father) is swallowed by a giant whale while searching for Pinocchio. What happens if the son dies? Do we lose the ability to be saved and evolve?
049 I’m a young writer. Your music has inspired me deeply in terms of not being afraid of throwing my feelings into my texts.
048 What are your views on Morrissey. Both early days and his newer more ugly persona?
046 How do you forgive yourself for horrible things did to someone in throes of addiction? In Issue #43 you gave David a song lyric. Can I have one too?
045 My partner died in 2014: traffic. ‘Into My Arms’ became our song. At that moment I was actually pregnant by him. I lost his child. He was a huge fan of your music and I think I became a fan of your music because of him.
044 Androgyny and sort of cross-genderedness of your performance style. (My girlfriend agrees you often bring an amazing drag-queen energy.)
043 Do u have any spare lyrics I can have? I’m seriously blocked.
042 Sexual desire affect general desire for creation. If there is a whole lot of sex in your religion or a whole lot of religion in your sex.
041 In your mind, does God have a voice. And if so, is it a familiar one? There is a twistedness to my idea of God that makes me think of Tom Waits.
040 How can I reclaim songs of yours. Which have, until recently associated intensely with a really terrible relationship?
039 How do you deal with loneliness? What made you become a vegetarian?
038 Future fills with fear and hope. Is there anything that you think of as essentially beautiful, and that is sustained and forceful enough to save us.
037 How do you feel about God? Really. Do you smoke?
036 Stereotypical Nick Cave fan? What do you think about your fans?
033 Did you ever want to give up and quit. Because of your inner voice?
032 What is Love. Why do love songs so frequently move us? List of your top 10 love songs?
031 Cover for Push the Sky Away. What was the thought process behind choosing the cover of Push the Sky Away?
030 How is Susie doing? I have just finished watching One More Time With Feeling.
029 What is your earliest memory. And has it in any way framed or spoken to any past or ongoing thematic concerns?
028 How do you deal with evil? The casual, everyday evil, like throwing tobacco in the eyes of a beautiful animal in a zoo?
027 Have your own songs ever made you cry. Whilst performing them on stage?
026 I am 10. How will having your music in my life so early on affect me?
025 Most loved poets? Mentioned that you look to some poets for inspiration in your songwriting. Which ones?
024 Thoughts on Dismissal of Legacy. I am bothered that you dismissed the idea of leaving a legacy – I’d like to challenge you on this.
023 Hard to Find Happiness. Three and a half years ago I lost my wife and I was left to take care of my (then 2 year old) daughter.
022 Considering Human Imagination. Considering human imagination the last piece of wilderness, do you think AI will ever be able to write a good song?
021 Spitting on Nocturama. Kindly note that you’re all in my burn-book now for spitting on Nocturama, which I love with a capital L.
020 Why Nocturama is so hated. Can you explain why Nocturama is so hated amongst your fans?
019 Why do you want to talk to your fans. Why do you want to talk to your fans and what do you hope to achieve by doing this?
018 Facing the mob in Wangaratta. How did it work out for you – facing the mob in Wangaratta when you did your “In Conversation” event.
017 Send Your Own Damn Emails. Hang on a minute. 72 hours to the end of the world, and you contact Rachel to send out an email?
016 10 Most Favorite Pieces Music. What would be a list of 10 of your most favorite pieces of music, by artists other than yourself? And number 11 must be a Gun Club song.
015 72 Hours Band Members.You say you would freak the fuck out when you heard that you have only 72 hours to live.
014 Mother Most Helpful Advice. May I ask what was the most helpful advice she gave you? What of her words do you hold dear?
013 Thoughts Brian Eno’s Stance on Israel. What are your thoughts on Brian Eno’s stance on Israel?
012 Freak Out the Whole 72 Hours. You said you’d “freak the fuck out” if the world were about to end in 72 hours. Would that be for the whole 72 hours?
011 Explain Your Faith. As an atheist I find other people’s belief in a god both incomprehensible and fascinating. Is there any way you can explain your faith?
010 Subconscious Dreams Imagery. In your ‘notebook full of words’ do you record pieces of your subconscious? And how much influence the imagery of your writing.
009 Creativity Disappears Coax It Back. Are there times your creativity disappears and if so how do you coax it back / jump start it?
008 World End 72 Hours. If somebody told you that the world was going to end in the next, let’s say, 72 hours, what would you do in those 72 hours?
007 Communication Dream Feeling. I have experienced the death of my father, my sister, and my first love in the past few years and feel that I have some communication with them.
006 I have experienced the death of my father, my sister, and my first love in the past few years and feel that I have some communication with them, mostly through dreams. Are you and Susie feeling that your son Arthur is with you and communicating in some way?
005 Grinderman Guitar Music World. Any plans to rock out again a la Grinderman.
004 A Bit About Warren. Do you hang out with Warren a lot, or just whilst recording? I’m hoping you say you do, as there are friendship goals.
003 Write Resonate. I feel the process is like trying to describe something which I can only see imperfectly, or out of the corner of my eye.
002 Animal Nature. It seems that in your last few albums you have been writing songs about animals and nature. Do you have any animals at home?
001 Writing Challenge after Skeleton Tree. I would love to know how you feel about your writing now. Did it get easier after what seemed to be quite a challenge around “Skeleton Tree”?
Intro: A Spectre is Haunting
Heideggerian proponent of the thought of Being who stresses the need to ‘traverse’ the horizon of modern subjectivity culminating in current ravaging nihilism.
Inherent excess, inherent logic philosophers of subjectivity articulate certain excessive moment of ‘madness’ inherent to cogito.
Abyss of freedom. Key dimension of the imagination is disruptive.
Proliferation multiple forms of subjectivity.Continue reading
The Limits of Fabrication: Materials Science, Materialist Poetics (Idiom: Inventing Writing Theory) by Nathan Brown, book about materials science and Charlie Olson’s (I, Maximus of Gloucester, to You) poetry.
Form of language courted by Heidegger — over what is life and what is rock.
Reminds me of Carlos Castenada — in one of his last books, where searching for truth of image, crawls into rock as shaman logic, to unavoidably discover essence & meaning of slowing down time.
High Didg section. Being and Time as Shape.Continue reading
“I came,” she said, “hoping you could talk me out of a fantasy.”
“Cherish it,” cried Hilarius, fiercely. “What else do any of you have? Hold it tightly by its little tentacle, don’t let the Freudians coax it away or the pharmacists poison it out of you. Whatever it is, hold it dear, for when you lose it you go over by that much to the other. You begin to cease to be.”Continue reading
The brilliance and originality of this book consists specifically in its radical recasting of the metaphorical, figural uses of “theater” and “drama.”—Robert Hanke
Paul is editing a new book series at Stanford University Press, Square One: First Order Questions in the Humanities.
I love candor that seeks out order, what call Purveyors of The Decimals, indeed even as as Tunnel of Love (most recent book, Love as Human Freedom, Stanford University Press, 2017).Continue reading
“… impressive, rigorous, coherent, and innovative.”—Yves Laberge, The European Legacy
Samuel Beckett’s actual library “is still where it was at the time of his death in 1989, in his apartment on the Boulevard St. Jacques in Paris. Only a relatively small amount of books had previously been taken out of the library…The library contains roughly 700 books, which includes those volumes that Beckett kept at his country retreat in Ussy that were moved to Paris when he died.” From books Introduction, pages xiii-xvii.
Consider a great find
Reading this book came to a new understanding of Beckett’s Process for Foraging and Storaging.
And how much unknowingly I was there — all along.
Talks about Beckett as an artist who is a reader, a phrase hunter, an extractor, notebook keeper, writer in margins — yes a marginalist!
Especially his Florentia edition of Dante.
Beckett himself having referred to it as “treasure … with notes that knew their place…” As well as: a “horrid [thing], beslubbered with grotesque notes, looking like a bank book in white cardboard and pale gold title …”
If you read Beckett a lot a lot — highly recommend. ★★★★★
After reading just three chapters, could read titles for Philosophy Books/Articles and tell apart parts of sentences and match up meaning to words.
Phrase hunting with The William. A collection of phrases from the Shakespeare Lexicon. Am up to letter C reading it.
A Complete Dictionary of All the English Words, Phrases and Constructions in the Works of the Poet, Vol 1 & 2. Alexander Schmidt, LL. D. (1902). Revised and enlarged by Georage Sarrazin.Continue reading
The Sick Bag Song by Nick Cave is especially essential to my collection.
Helps me wake up beyond revelations of ornery terrors: to behold with honesty humor and relish the beauty in my obsessions –
Especially those that otherwise would tear the soul apart.
I really liked Lulu In Hollywood by Louise Brooks. Working in Hollywood, and on dancing stages, travelled with Ziegfeld. Its an honest book. Bitter, its been called — but I dont see it that way entirely. Its another hard knocks western song out of Kansas and Missouri. Her best friend commits suicide. There is seemingly all this emotional blackmail from men and Hollywood — money, travel, working in theatre, running to and from NY and Calif and Germany. She did several German films. Basically hated Hollywood, but also loved having the work, refused at first to do talkies.
Adventurous, stubborn, she loved to read. Was more into books herself than movies, she dogmatically proclaims. But the book is also full of hard knocks, loss, and tons of disdain — for wealthy of Hollywood, in particular and in general.
IN LINE TO WORK ON
Dunning condum nation
Sometimes, turn it on here – just to capture its horror on me, its rebellion, expository cry in expunge of darkness.
Sometimes shrills up the hill – caroms and catches a cross current of feeding grounds, running around with a stick and other waves of shambling dynamite, freeing a sordid frenzy.
Swans scream suddenly burning up — on silence. Turns into a smoke signal, then laughter passing — with another scream — goodbye goodbye.
Living on Image
Frozen is a distension of hope. Never free from clucking after image as a pirate or pocket gopher does holy treasure.
Implicitness as markers in voodoo with void, both horror and beautiful almost every symptom a map of the world.
An awakening, hard spasmed wild contraries wrestling with rose entwined in bone, well known tattoo tragic god —
Talk suddenly turns solemn
Living on images. That thru a monstrous build up burn, reflect both passion and its obscenity, always rearranging agist, wag and flog, bright lethal odyssey.
Awakening fall into a dizzying chronic filmic, Pynch pops up poetically trained — by my flesh lost up in a lethal mesh, some of it haughty, some screeching hawkish needy, loved in ways unanswerable, shaken out of silence –
Or shocked into a silence that is remote — remote with what was once called music of spheres, or spheres of epiphany.
Eels or peels, always one sword that kneels, deep cut, one into another, next as if implicit with its fugitives from banality and eery rapport with what survives otherwise —
When its bottomless or tea totals – the wretched droughts.Continue reading
Josefina Ayerza with Slavoj Zizek from Flash Art on Lacon.com
“The entire satisfaction, the jouissance is that you do not know and will never know who the other is… the entire satisfaction is in this purely symbolic exchange…”
“In quantum physics for example you have the idea of possibility. If you take all the possible movements of an electron, for example, that already describes a certain actuality. To deduce what the actual movement will be, you must consider all possibilities. Possibility is not just a mere possibility but already functions as (an) actuality in itself…”
Camus mentions density
Ran across in Camus a discussion that includes observations on density, on the notion of thoughts or a visual modality being dense. Density is a big thing for me.
Some of us experience life as density, as befit with density. Camus assigns discovering visions of density – as part of seeing the absurd, it is an appearance of the absurd. Absurd for him encompasses a philosophical category which sees through, which incurs visions that see through to the real.
“A step lower and strangeness creeps in: perceiving that the world is ‘dense,’ sensing to what degree a stone is foreign and irreducible to us, with what intensity nature or a landscape can negate us.”Continue reading
Falling asleep with Finnegans Wake. Gave me hallucinations still cherish. Think about this book a lot. Like a fish, the tide and blotting paper. Aquatic with words, to see what undercurrent pings and plots like a sinking rock. I love this book. Where poetry upends with limerick, descends into every threshold of language at its poetic markers, among many.
Even mine such as it is shrouded in magical horror. Astonished at the elevation! What a relief and shock it was to first wander around in, like Alice for a chalice, for shimmering destinies that plait through his language. Mindfulness concocting particulate simmering connections, as his carpet beater silts and looms, through poetic slough’n trough (with highly hilly integrity).
And without having to let go at all of its density!
Two books had super heavy influence on me very early on.
Ezra Pounds translation of Remy du Gormant’s The Natural Philosophy of Love. A later 1800’s serious tract about sexual instincts in animals. And translated with marked succinctness and intensity by the great Ezra. Loved it.
Also: The infamous In Praise of Folly. A satirical essay written by Erasmus of Rotterdam, first printed in June 1511. “Folly praises self-deception and madness and moves to a satirical examination of pious but superstitious abuses –” WIKI.
A comedy really. Found it a great relief to “wisdom” as heads in bible and prayers, scriptures that howled at my want of freedom — like an escaping thief. Who bothered to, dared.
Fundamental question of philosophy, to live or not. What is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying —
To run the risk, a passion, allegiance, faith, zeal — to point of death becomes equiv to intensification: a passion of living. Willingness risk “everything” for it.
Balance between evidence and lyricism, according to Camus, can allow for one to achieve simultaneously extent (burdern, infleunce etc) of emotion, and yet without sacrificing lucidity.
An act like this is prepared within the silence of the heart, as is a great work of art. The man himself is ignorant of it. One evening he pulls the trigger or jumps.Continue reading
Ugly as an aesthetic category. Gradual abandonment Unity. Das negativschone, negatively beautiful —
Sublime and the ridiculous, how one rubs up against other —
Overwhelming ugly becomes monstrous, can no longer be sublated into sublime –
Definitions of monstrous – as a badge of ?
when sublime generates excruciation which due to its intensity provides negative stimulus, disruption, disunity, nightmare, much like theatre, like entertainment, only its nebulousness and carnality are interior – not extraneous
charms, emotions, direct impact on health – illness over what life is and what it represents – illness as a line of separation, that presents itself as a defiant metamorphical indivinity, from the doldrums, repetition, impoverishment, heartbreak. songs of threnody emerge from banality like a dangling noose hungry for freedom
vicious cycle unnatural excess unnatural savagery seen as outside of useful
savagery has been called, attachment to a particular choice so suspends rational comparison with possible choices, thrall of passion, passio animi
passion seen as morally reprehensible,
on inclination to freedom as passion
abject, and the disgusting – desperately try to resist being dragged into it.
objects of disgust threaten corporeity
DESTABILIZES line that separates the inside of our body from its outside. Border that separates gets violated!! Inside penetrates out.
Blood – becomes sweet again, takes on nature of ailing heart of god traveling through pain and horror of being mortal. Writhe seeing through time as if in a time beyond time its wretched repetitious onslaught, ugly, constant, inescapable, belabored, searching for beauty finding a blanket of horror.
Horror itself becomes mark of virtue.
violating inside outside frontier
Story Titles: Luminence Flux, Degrees of Freedom, Duck Quacks Loudest Gets Shot
From Wikipedia. Essay written in Latin in 1509 by Desiderius Erasmus of Rotterdam and first printed in June 1511. Inspired by previous works of the Italian humanist Faustino Perisauli De Triumpho Stultitiae, it is a satirical attack on superstitions and other traditions of European society as well as on the Western Church.
Erasmus revised and extended his work, which was originally written in the space of a week while sojourning with Sir Thomas More at More’s house in Bucklersbury in the City of London. The title Moriae Encomium had a punning second meaning as In Praise of More. In Praise of Folly is considered one of the most notable works of the Renaissance and played an important role in the beginnings of the Protestant Reformation.
Night Table. Every Night. In the French.
Agua Viva. Ex-lover to whom she must explain. And para after para gushes out after thresholds where language goes beyond the simple or complex, beyond deviousness, and even beyond reflection or admission, to something ailing for a form. Seeps as paint does blood through the grave and the mighty. Irresolvable with hidden beauty, nestling in cracks. Luminance and void, dangling off hiatus of every breadth, every death, hearing itself scream, for murder & joy. Wild as a state of nature.
Russell Sbriglia’s introduction to Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Literature but Were Afraid to Ask Žižek offers a great explanation of Zizek’s work meanwhile discussing Lacan’s boss threesie: Symbolic, Real, Imaginary. I found it very elucidating!
Russell’s chapter, Symptoms of Idealogy Critique offers up a voracious philosophical investigation into interpretive paradigms on symptomatic readings (cynicism vs. fetishistic) of early modern literature – through Emerson from Freud to Zizek. And in the spirit of Zizek (plus-de-jouir) discusses “the embodiment of the lie which enables us to sustain the unbearable truth.”
Book’s last chapter is from Zizek – deliciously entitled Subjective Destruction in Shakespeare and Beckett. Section 1, to put very casually, how in Shakespeare “melancholia precedes prohibition,” filling a void “primordially not its own.” Section 2, takes us from Joyce’s illicit pleasure in language (Here Comes Everybody) to Sam Beckett’s self-emptying subjectivity (Here Comes the Not I) and “whose dead puppet, the ‘real’ person is” anyway. Fabulous, as always. Wee bit excerpted here.
Got off of archive.org. Considered historically important French language book by Etymologtist Auguste Brachet. Its pretty darn good – Cours complet d’histoire de la langue française conforme au programme du Conseil supérieur de l’instruction publique en date du 15 juillet 1880.
Marcel Proust’s short stories, Les Plaisirs and Les Jours. The Pleasure of My Days –
In which details a heart’s merciless compulsion for whats missing — as a wild delicacy of treasonous virtues that are unforgiving.
Also a take on Flaubert, using characters Bacard and Pecuchet — think Plato as two feckless vaniloquent bourgeoisie BFF posing a (‘cooperative argumentative type’) dialogue — discussing virtues and merits of Music and High Society – -Its delicious fictitious drollery, really funny & by contraries profound, cheeky, charming, delightful.
Compares line where divine meets the sublime and language of the counting heads – as coextensive with history of math, which it is. Book very fine for philosophy majors.
Slavoj Zizek talking up Beckett & Lacan: “If there ever was a kenotic writer, the writer of the utter self-emptying of subjectivity, of its reduction to a minimal difference, it is Beckett. We touch the Lacanian Real when we subtract from a symbolic field all the wealth of its differences, reducing it to a minimum of antagonism. Lacan gets sometimes seduced by the rhizomatic wealth of language beyond (or, rather, beneath) the formal structure that sustains it. (My emphasis).” – Its the glue its the glue –
And on the infamous Not I: “When asked if the Auditor is Death or a guardian angel, Beckett shrugged his shoulders, lifted his arms and let them fall to his sides, leaving the ambiguity intact – repeating the very gesture of the Auditor.” Auditors! I love it. Fab a Lot!
Checked means its been translated literally, thats all.
A young girl’s eyes pierce the night. checked.
In a long white chemise, illuminating, a corner wrapped in shadow, my noctabulant kneels half asleep mumbling before crucifix and Virgin. Pious images cover the walls, the kneeling sleeper readies herself for anything, glides off between imminent sheets. As a livery of phantoms also no less real takes full rights over me, the bedroom reconvenes its intransigence heavy with premature nightmare. checked.
There is a terror that arises between four walls like wind on the sea. A crone bent in two, menaces at me with her walking stick, a man rendered invisible by rings of fame his watchtower awaits at any instant, God “who sees all and knows all thoughts” gazes down severely. A curtain of white detaches from its window, planes across the darkness, closes in, carries me away, slowly I traverse its pane and mount the sky – checked.
A thousand glowing traces loom up from out of the abyss, dance in the round, wander away with the nightlight, have a go at me. Rainbow dust composes itself into arrays, colors slip from one to the next. Conic, circular, rectangular, ancient pyramids turn liquid and luminous, a forge of curvature and color, a prismatic sun. The sky is my tears. A prisoners cinema, jiggling in the round – the bed pitches under a sea-swell of dreams. checked.
During the days, for these nights, there spent a childhood sordid and anxious, haunted by the sin of being mortal, Friday’s saint and Wednesday’s ashes. Growing up under a crush of heavy sails mourning, a childhood stolen from itself. checked.
Doesn’t begin to cover it. How outlaw hands gripped the wheel of destiny : so much is lodged there, neonates vigorously strangled by cordon umbilical, still persist, “insist they live.” checked.
Listening, the night is full of their cries: long heart-rending cries interrupted by windows slamming closed, cries raucous and fluid muffled by a gag, dying between lips, calls strident, the names of men, of women thrown into empty eternity, avenging laughter falls from on high, in a cascade of contempt, complaints vague and diffused, from the wails of children to the voices of men. All these cries melee like falling leaves in autumn, mounting in a garden as would pink odor of dew, of humic compote and the cut of hay. checked.
It’s a well known garden in Paris where I am stashed. A man all pale, tilted over, a hand squeezing in the void, emerges from behind a group of charcoal-ists, he travels a few little steps on white stones, tilted, his hand crotched at the absent, then starts off again with a caution across the lawn – Another appears, his face enflamed with ruby lips, surprised at my refuge in the wall there, cached in behind a frightful mass of fuschia. It is full of ivy and soot, begonias dirty fingers, signs of hopscotch traced with chalk. The man makes an obscene gesture and approaches, but there are many well known detours. Another who is distraught, straddling a window, batting at the air like a windmill, foam coming out of his lips: “they robbed me the bastards,” one masters it. Now a woman, hands clutched under her chin, she runs from all, her body shapeless, flabby and clumsy. These passing visions snatched with a half smile just as soon paralyze, as above appears a pallid face who is trying to introduce himself between the bars of his cage, he tries at first face front and then at an angle, but in vain. Alas a white bony arm crosses and slowly hangs up against the evening like linen in the wind. checked.
A lying, smiling pack (parents and doctors) rotate around this pit of fools from the garden of my childhood. checked.
Poor insipid beings, grief that surrenders, rears up, pain that gets beaten, powerless, crushed, idiotic. Listening to it: a b c d I don’t no anymore how to speak, 1 2 3 4 don’t know anymore how to count.
Have you imported the village innocent or neighborhood crazy, are streets not full of consciousness sold out, backbones broken? Others doomed, near death, a better life run aground in fairs, in harbors, in squares, under bridges.
What misery, despair remains for those alive after coming off shipwrecks – astonished at finding themselves on friable edges alongside. Astonished meeting one to one, from man to man, as with brief looks, exchanging all purpose words, without any sense or depth of meaning. Those who return alone from far off, to hear themselves so speak. . . of rain or good weather. And it seems that the earth responds to the sound of voices harder under foot. Rivers flow greasy waters, carrying along a heavy stench. Above city bridges, above the countryside. And in the city and in the country, a moving sea of human glances.
Not one, that does not shelter a secret history. That does not call for a response, an explication. Regarding through purity undiluted their spotty net, backdrop of troubles. Algae and detritus. Humans strewn, with protruding looks, dark and cruddy-eyed, voiceless visions further elucidated, looks that know hate and scorn, looks loving and confident, looks that reveal one goal, one wish, looks that desire sail in blood. I glimpse all this through an insistence lost in colorless hunger, seeming to demand account of all impotence, all human defeat, other than its own.
I was not living life but death. Knew most of corpses rising right before my eyes – “as much as you turn away, to hide yourself, deny. . . you will attend to for the sake of your family.” Discussing it tenderly, kindly if not sardonically, else at image of Christ eternally humble, insane piece of work, as they held out to me their arms.
From west to east, countryside to countryside, city to city I marched between tombs. Soon the sun lost me, whether it was grassy or paved, I was floating, suspended between sky and earth, between the ceiling and floor. My sore eyes, toppled presenting to the world their stringy lobes, my hands hooked and mutilated carrying a senseless heritage. I rode the clouds with air of disheveled folly or friendly beggar. Feeling somewhat the monster, didn’t recognize anymore people I used to like. Finally, slowly I became as petrified in place as a perfect accessory of the decor.
For a longtime wandering around the city from place to place, from top to bottom. I came to know it well, that it is not only a city but an octopus. All streets parallel and oblique converging toward a liquid center, suckers clutching. Tentacles of the beast, each carrying houses on its own two sides: one of small panes, another of heavy curtains. It is there that I heard from the lips of Vérax, the good news about Notre Dame de Cléry, there that I saw the beautiful gaze of Violette injected in black ink, finally stars Justus and Bételguese, Vérax and La Chevelure, all girls whose names stars absorbed through magnetized doors set by powerful currents. Darkness instantly traversed by invisible rays a space revealed of their own reflection. Only the incandescent transparency of skeleton and shape of heart. Deaf triggers alternately animate flashes of breath and combustion of methane, halos of mercury, their bodies automatic. How they see each other go purple then green.
The time for attractions having passed, streets are dismissed by the same complicated regularity. Its face purified, regains its crown, believed reborn. (The trunk of man gone away to think in its own quarter.)
Day to day, people fill like sand then leave no trace of these expansions and convulsions, one can set a course on it as a beach by its sun.
At such a beach I discover the sky, an immense cloudless sky to lose oneself in as a kite. Faithfully to follow as my eyes could not to leave it, I ran without end to try and meet it. Breathless, I threw myself on the sand, sand so fine between fingers with a warm caress, that made me laugh.
The inevitable procession: women in black bring me back to the streets and now, of an icy air, towards a gothic villa whose windows reflect the house-trained sun. It is the first day of my life that I see the light.
Leaving behind the Memories, the avalanche and scaffolding of a stillborn life, the bronzes and plaster casts of all civilization and trusting myself to an angle blue as slate, I took a place in the beautiful sky in a flight of pigeons in the heart of the City. The heavy bird voyagers came flocking down not far from a place where, always devoured by the demon of curiosity, I melt into a crowd.
I saw they were holding a parade. The standards and flags of feeble boys and bony old men (cane in hand); the banners and faded finery of sweaty clergymen (armpits stinky and green), the holy scapulars and filthy rosary of young sisters, children of Mary trembling: “My father I have had bad thoughts.” All yammering, breadth rotten : we are espoused to France. Three greasy haired hunched over old men discovering between their rack of mustaches a hostful of rancid wafers.
There you are in your place under the flag, insane with holiness. Why not smile disillusioned or burst out laughing with amusement… But no I stay to spit at the blood of my ancestors, who all take after you. Will I soon enough not end rejecting this sinking burden? Yes, it is not so long, la Véronique was smiling at me in saintly line with Christ, the Virgin and crown wavering under the incense, large as nails fixed to the wall, trainees of blood, the Saintly Face crying oily tears under a single red lamp lighting the “chapel of Seven Sorrows.”
It was a retreat, an hour of meditation, I was seven years old, on my knees trembling. Forcing myself to invent sins, as mine seemed insufficient, sins little in relation with the gravity of my own, arms and legs broken, the severity of the texts, the invocations. So I invented… The priest welcomed me into an obscure room where I will horror and he will confess to me on his knees. They took me back to a cab. The house was far away : “between Saint and Safety” explained my mother to the coachman as I trembled through the long ride on upholstery of damp velour, dreading death at every turn, street streaming with rain, horseshoes slipping out of control.
I had to swallow the host also, shame in not knowing how to go about it, posing these questions. “Especially do not make him have to touch your teeth,” said my mother to me. What a frightful debate of language, the goodness of god ensalivated. It was so long and messed up that I began to doubt it was composed of…God. The idea would not let go, became impossible to think of anything else : I began sobbing. Seeing my emotion, the priest and parents congratulated themselves of my utmost piety. Would I say – could I confess the horror of what was happening? Was it not already a state of mortal sin? One speaks of fervors… For the first time the blissful smiles, superior airs of the grand appeared to me strange, doubtable. Meanwhile, I was so proud to be an only child of a first communion that would happen to, but like my mother wished, without any material rejoicing that would trouble the sanctity of the day.
And another time sanctity had lodged itself in the attic. A storage room full of trunks and old junk. Where the window was never opened, condemned by a heavy curtain, leaving only a filter of light thru stained glass. Would stay there for hours, escaping their tedium, plunged in a body lost to it. It happened one day that we had to move the clutter of objects to make a crossing to reach the window; it was the only place where one could see a captive dirigible that had fallen in the garden next door. One could see its nacelle at 20 meters coinciding between two walls, a half deflated orange envelope, striated heavy ropes, sprawled over the rooftops and branches of a tree. Finally I saw the pilot emerge from the diverse mass; his smallness to have fallen from heaven appeared to me a strange disappointment. An incomparable event, its puff of air in my punctured attic.
I was without friend. All were reproved by my mother as “too good” or “not pious enough.” Poor, little girl – only to find her scope innately, to seek out neighbors who might have lent a hand, to be at leave to play with other children on the street, to speak with tradesmen, to be acquainted with the stories of the neighborhood! But her situation would not permit it, instead we were locked in, by a distrust of all that were not Family, in complete ignorance of all in the world that could be gay, active, lively, vibrant, productive, same to say simply human. “To have relations” or “to receive” threw my mother into a state of solemn panic and forced our submission to its withering backlash. My brother alone would pull us through the malaise with his abandon, bursting into a whirlwind of crazy sacrilegious giggles, that we were forced to contain in living room or church.
The house had always the characteristic of being dreary and unchanging. The impossible arrival of a letter filled me with passion, a letter that would be very rare, written from Africa, America or China by some uncle faraway. Though one never appeared on the bronze decorated tray full of bills, announcements, L’Écho de Paris – still I awaited the mail every day for such a thick envelope, adorned with an extraordinary stamp, writing of something fantastic.
Despite domestics, mother was constantly preoccupied with household chores, preoccupied with anguish over the dust, mothballs and polish. Not a day went by without a new stain to absorb her, her countenance put out by things and people. She was called “to arrange” and was never finished. All the world became under her foot, its only active part being to contribute to the general bouleversement. Children and domestics, tight faced at the sight of each other, coming and going, mounting and descending, nothing was saved. Lonesome, the storage room remained unchanging, an atmosphere confined in stained light.
It was my refuge, there to the horse of an old moleskin trunk or crouched in a frame of chair bottoms, I retold myself tales without end mostly of those from before I was born, of a time where I inhabited the sky. Or else, contemplating with fervor sweet sallow Jesus and blond Joseph, images blue, rose-colored, golden, stars wrapped in silk, knotted with favors. Or else, would wash my doll and partake in the discovery of my own body, that one was ordered to ignore. The curiosity of a child, toward her belly, at the same moment where she learns God sees all and is following her into the storage room. Curiosity then terror. Life being made quickly to oscillate between these two poles: the one sacred and venerated as must be exhibited (my mother’s enlistments after communions), the other dirty, shameful that must never be named. How together more mysterious, more enthralling, more intense than a life dreary and unchanging. Thus was I to rock between the infamous and the sublime, over the course of many years, where true life would always be absent.
Laborers on their way to work after having proudly wiped the kids and hurried them, with a rude tenderness that did not mince words, “blow your nose, wipe your ass, good-for-nothing.” In front of them at least children could unbutton their panties without believing themselves in hell. With them would they share an air of goodness? Not like mine, holier than thou pretentious. “My poor girl?” Send them with a wallop running out onto the sidewalk.
Where I imagine fiery laundresses hands soaking in the Siene for hours “Are you good & done, you, with your piles, get off on the shit in these napkins? wouldn’t it be doodled by his eminence the boss?” and they burst out laughing that gets lost in the reeds.
The Art of Dressing Curves is a gorgeous book that only SUSAN MOSES could write. Acclaimed stylist for the curvy side of life. No other book quite like it. Includes diagrammatic of 9 collars that she had me draw. I admire Susan greatly! Her faith helps me find what having faith means – Sacrificial cults abscond with me. Jesus was such a do or die. She’s on the DO side. And does it so beautifully!
Read almost everything by GEORGES BATAILLE on beauty, sex & death. He wrote novels & philosophy. This is his master work. Holding French against English I have read it at least three times. I adore it. Sacred essentials of horror & beauty taken out to edges of ecstasy at depths of impossibility and endlessness. Fearless F$CKER I love him. New translation by Prof. Kendall (with whom I took an online course once, I think).
SAM BECKETT, in his book Comment C’est, circles language La Boue (means mud in FR, nostalgia de la boue). He flushes and loops through an exquisite meandering mud of reason & dreams like a cryptographic lattice. My language dreams in La Boue too. Only now to open this book and discover – yeah Sam got there before me. His strength, courage & sanity gives for some of us a great sense of ministration & relief. Plot Summary: Past now gone with one Pim. Favorite soft sac he (apparently) sleeps on – and its readjustment once again (the last at first being so lovely). Also: a certain flow rate of (dinner?) tins. Part 1 is fab a lot. Eng/FR edition published by Routledge, a voluminous addition to the Beckett catalog.
Development of communication & gesture by pre-eminent expert in field, Prof. Emeritus DAVID MCNEILL. Author of 11 books on language, gesture, speech and so on. Several of which are considered classics. (If I get 1 pub’d in my life time will be a frckng miracle.) Very Prestigious Guy. Was honored to provide Professor McNeill with series of gesture drawings for one of his latest books.