from Dr Saturnian’s Monologue,
Section IV of Song of Anonymous (a
nomadic novel) a novel in progress by Pedro R. Rivadeneira.
“Fundamentally, everything that is said is a quotation . . .”
Thomas Bernhard, Walking
the activity of writing and the text written and read are the locus in which both subject and object meet there is no distinction between one and the other when one is writing when one is giving one’s complete undivided attention to the writing the reading am I making myself clear enough for you boy? – he asks mockingly and begins to giggle then rapidly flicks his tongue in and out like a reptile testing the air, and as he speaks, I seem to hear another voice in the background, in the back of my head perhaps, a mumbling under the breath as if someone where dutifully reading words from a text. At times it seems I hear a swarm of voices that match the movement of his lips perfectly while his louder single voice seems out of sync. Startled I stumble back toward the wall behind me, he looks up smiling knowingly and says -
writing is a physiological function you see a biological necessity an attempt to generate a negative disobedient space within the administered space we are all subjected to on a daily basis rebelling against the cage to which one has been assigned making use of the overlapping the crisscrossing of discourses of various kinds clinical critical political philosophical scientific religious poetic what-have-you! traversing the various spaces one inhabits like invisible cosmic rays rearranging the molecules of ones thoughts the perspectives of one’s perceptions – he mumbles on excitedly flinging spittle from his lips – a long process of determining and cataloguing what they have in common and what they don’t I mean to say the individual parts the sections and intersections the nodes and nods thereof or the ideas if there are any it no longer matters whether we are witnessing a period characterized by the death of the idea the lack of great ideas this death this incapacity this insufficiency and the vacuum it leaves present leads one to an uneasy balance between similarities and differences forming an irregular tangle of relationships and disparities a work made up primarily of ruptures and fragments a kind of scrub of sounds and gestures which I call an entanglemeant – he emphasizes looking at me with glee - a meaningful tangle of events you see all of which arise from a single electron of need to express . . . all of which can manifest as a single isolated particle of expression or as a wave of potential expressive gestures and directions a theater of possibilities you see a kind of disintegration and this integration an extraordinarily rapid process of oscillations which produces the illusion of unity whereas in reality everything is dismembered! I am disintegrated and re-integrated rearranged in an ongoing process of grating I feel indeed that the clinical discourse my doctors produce to describe my condition is nothing more than a machine by means of which they grate me into pieces fine particles turning me into so much saw dust which they then rearrange at will thus taking my body taking my thoughts away from me when I am so mutilated when I am so made mute they claim to have cured me thus erasing the singularity of the event that is me mastering every surprise in advance so most of the words I find myself using I mean the strategies I find myself falling back on are words of differentiation and distancing what writes this? possible beginnings and endings in the middle the muddle of
things who wrote this? who wrote you? what writes you?
I can’t tell you who – he says looking at me quizzically, raising his eyebrows in mockery – who wrote you? who? what? what wrote
you? a book of sand and debris written by the howling North Sea wind re-written constantly a sea a wind to which you will soon return and more than willingly fade back into the fog
pressure writing perhaps synonymous with face to face sequential curling round and round the slow action towards this juncture frozen in shreds of darkness straying and not to mention the rest of “it” what when say what windblown
not only a whisper this as planned “us” becomes “we”
what purpose as perilous clockwise control pleasure controlled prank thinking the great what impulse around us what known meant the take just as says should remark as a through the writing they can whatever as what in a sense imposed upon our “is” valley breaking everythrough falling purpose thing as before what meant the take thinking what will the meaning lotsa restlessness sometimes meant
pretty just as says so what they can whatever means made alike a knot only thought should be or as they are that what upon a sense person valley through thinking though upon an almost when no book just meandering of paths and night faces between destinations aperiodic then of this crack an image initiated round a
from whence you came – he says - with away from myself and the fog the cold gray fog seeping into everything the fog then and the wind writing and re-writing everything the “I” constantly seeping into the everything - he says with trembling voice – the rain erasing and beginning again who writing me writing the me in and out of existence a presence displaced by the writing the symbols displaced by wrote you? who? what? what wrote you? the writing perhaps writing itself each other misplaced stumbling into one’s irreducible secondarity one’s origin always already evaded the writing subject is no longer the person herself the person alone who writes or the person alone who writes I could say invaded orally and anally invaded by a specter that remains silent the reading subject – he blurts out with a puzzled expression on his face - the subject who reads himself as does the writing read itself the writing no longer has to be a language of words of terms in a narrow sense no longer a writing of concepts which dry up thought and life itself no but a writing that includes sonority intonation and intensity a writing a language with which to listen to life an onomatopoeic writing! – he suddenly exclaims with a little hop that makes the dust balls on the floor around him move – one fears the consequences of all thinking of all actions why these sudden unrelated bursts of rage? these sudden rages? perhaps my headaches my sinus headaches I have never known what it’s like to be without them I implore my sister to drive syringe needles into my forehead to drain out the excess fluids and so relieve the pressure in my head but she won’t she calls the family doctor instead that idiot who knows nothing about anything nothing everything! he wants to see me put away it’s political you see he uses his authority as a medical doctor to exercise control over others always advising my sister to institu-tionalize me but she won’t she will not have me institutionalized she knows better she knows that will be the end of me might as well shoot me herself! she knows how patients are treated in such places how they take advantage of them torture them she won’t allow for that even though she knows there is this part of me that is always eating away at the rest of me eating away at my self-esteem saying no not saying! but projecting! projecting images terrible images of disaster in my brain this has been going on for years since I was a child this negative voice which is not a voice a dark necessity a black necrotic part of my mind wracked with guilt over time it has become like a cocoon to me a protective shell protecting me from failures I mean to say making me fail before I even try In order to do any work I have to struggle fight against that spot of dead flesh in my mind that spot of necrotic tissue in my brain from where the images and feelings of sickness issue from where the voice of death issues that spot of black meat that speaks in reverse with acerbic tone eroding me constantly a voice separate the voice of an other that nonetheless resides in me trying to control my brain my body but whose voice is it really? is it my voice somehow? somehow split off from the rest of me? or is it something else is it the voice of another entity implanting frequen-cies in my brain opening a portal into my consciousness large enough for them the editors to enter and make their home in an unknown corner of my mind from which they try to direct my behavior?!
shimering name eventually forgotten inside but also themselves inscriptions like fissures soon forgotten whereas nowhere and now here forming a skin as web spilled perhaps then opening up where
the drop responded within and some way shared forming how an agile tangle meant becoming sive I might say “as you say” say what accumulated belief twisting as desire to them beyond the more remains about writing writing
desiring desires unraveling unquote quiet touch of trajectory there recollecting myself perhaps as nobody stroking the self to what twigs now involved as such an expression if anything now said still depraved might come aground again and or on having to move to another shattered order so what’s a crowd la oscuridad creek like aqueduct crossed out for a ride to know that floor
dancing these almost then a mouthful her “as is” of hard long soft whose humor then wanted to be then as rows now rising bewildered they came curvilinear breaking a long
answer short to make another who asked me short coming before that question marks smeared down away the treading fast as you say toward what end giving permission standing misunderstanding under being what gasps said misled eye over under beneath becoming must have been a bridge an optical what is somewhere like an elsewhere we are as if a location turned the hand turning a page as blank as a when they speak a gargantuan struggle ensues in me a struggle in which I have to find new ways of believing in myself recuperate my self from their thievery take back my body and mind blood and marrow believe in myself again thus what is called the “writing subject” left “us” behind again – he flicks ash off from his cigarette with the flair of an impatient prima donna and suddenly sticks his tongue out at me – there is of course something missing – he stammers abruptly – something is always missing one can’t help but overlook something however carefully one may have thought about what one is doing what one wants to write wha’ happens is not only is something always missing but something is always amiss one always has the sensation the feeling the notion the unbearable feeling and notion that something is amiss because of this because something is always amiss one that is to say I cannot keep myself from writing incessantly in the constant process of writing I may find what’s missing I may stumble across what’s amiss and therefore recuperate it in the constant process of writing one may however unwittingly cover all the gaps plug in all the holes and crevasses found in reality cover all the textures all the shapes colors hues and layers cover it all up with descriptions such that nothing may escape one’s perceptions so that nothing from the other side may poke through and gain a foot hold in this our reality you see? – he asks looking at me, raising his eyebrows while taking another drag from his cigarette. I frown at his last statement and nervously shift my stance – all was well with me for a while in my solitude among the old sycamore trees I loved the patches of dried leaves and among them the puddles reflecting the sky as in an Escher print except for the violence the sudden violence that would come over me why these sudden unrelated rages? perhaps my ever present headaches or perhaps the precision of the leaves and puddles as in the afore mentioned prints perhaps the realization of the exact precision of one over the other the superior precision the superior perfection of the Escher print over the natural scene of leaves puddles and reflected sky with branches perhaps the superior truth of the artificial over the natural is what would drive me into a rage once in an attempt to prove myself wrong I bought several copies of those prints from the Escher museum in Den Haag several copies of those prints from the Escher museum in Den Haag several of them
in the usual black and white and shades of gray along with some colored ones the one of the puddle with the tire tracks running through it and the one with the carp in the pond with leaves floating on the surface of the water I bought several copies of these dozens in fact and I would take them to my favorite spot near the Scheveningen Bos there I would lay them out on the ground among the dry dead leaves and muddy puddles in different arrangements I would lay them out among the leaves and next to the puddles beneath the sycamore trees create different arrangements that is to say find different relationships different patterns among the prints and the puddles and leaves scattered everywhere among the sycamore trees
I would try different combinations arising from different permutations of the representations and the real puddles leaves and trees circle
the puddles and trees with Escher prints create pathways with the prints from one puddle to another and to the trees as well all this
stare when “I” was going somewhere where was now looking back then nothing before that and there like and like there the and so soon adrift so anyone this journey cannot hold then of images round the eventually but also inscriptions soon nowhere here turning then soft rows curvilinear meant before the giving under turning “I” and now so soon held then forming inside fissures bridging everything round ‘n round again as is la oscuridad now involved perhaps becoming the more trajectory to know that wanting almost rising say what you say what soiled thoughts the faulty haphazard slippages starts the straying fissures themselves whereas now a skin perhaps up some agile because and shattered creek ride a bridge elsewhere as web then where within way forming a tangle I might say accumulated way saying what twisting to them moving cracks initiated name inside
construction and away a way of becoming and going letting go of the staying not my territory which is to say resting for a while
which is never enough such that enough is so much more
said and then again some more straying starts to begin again an aporia and doing the risk again layers of making sense sedimented becoming non sense encrusted meaning in formation regimented into
resisting assimilation the tension between what is central and what is digressive arises and the
would become more complicated once I saw the sky and clouds reflected in the puddle water was this sky real or yet another representation? if so if these reflections in the so-called real water were representations how then did they relate to the Escher prints which were also representations? then what was the relationship between the prints and the sky reflected in the puddle? and so on I would go on like this for hours and return days later and try it again on occasion I would turn the prints upside down with their back sides facing up toward the sky and write on the large blank spaces all manner of things I would write in the blank spaces with a large red felt-tip marker I would draw diagrams of possible arrangements possible relationships between the prints and their surroundings I would write poems and incantations magical symbols once finished I would then turn them over again so that the prints now faced upward and then I would continue writing on the wide margins explanations points of contact between one print and another points of contact between the prints and surrounding objects like stones leaves puddles and trees I liked to lay the prints on the moss covered bases of the trees when I ran out of space on the margins I’d write on the ground on stones and on the leaves I even tried to write on the mud and water the reflected sky therein but to little avail as is to be expected
I would write like this for hours with nasty punctuation digging into the ground ruining many a felt - tip marker as an alternative I began using incense sticks for punctuation these became my commas periods colons and semicolons I enjoyed lighting them up along with candles which over time began to accumulate among the trees once all the candles were lit their light in the late afternoon or early evening gave the entire space an otherworldly atmosphere which passersby seemed to enjoy I am reminded here of Artaud’s “Theater of Cruelty” this was in effect my
theater of cruelty my attempt at mending the gap the fault the wound that supposedly separates us from our world from nature my actions from my thoughts my writing my life from the force of its essence mend the gap between the representation and the represented but of course I soon realized this so-called rupture between ourselves and reality is nothing more than a myth a lie designed to keep us searching feeling incomplete on a wild goose chase for though the map may not be the territory it is none-the-less part of it the territory it is embedded nested in it this play- ground the Scheveningen Bos this park being a stage whose trees sidewalks walled in space and road all have been a setting for my theater always already artificial man made that is to say always already a representation the gap in between a space that no words could aptly describe a labyrinth of representations one description nested inside the other ad infinitum! – he spits out
aggressively – it is at this intersection between things and their representations that some kind of reality takes place or more precisely – he says panting with excitement - it is in the gap between them that interesting things occur I mean to say this rupture is part of the reality one so assiduously searches for I could go on like this
for hours for hours I would go on like this thinking about these things from every possible angle from every angle I could possibly
possibility for new meanings is generated this function and dysfunctional it doesn’t work i.e., it doesn’t serve power turbubabulent curlicues involutions and counterinvolutions all that and much more rushed by, what does it river mean? on foot or bicycle becoming and going
into off course with a smile
a stray stream into endings just beginning accidental and resisting foiled interest into messy
spawn a twist discovered in the unconscious downward into body as transducer a betrayal of course All sorts of things rush by
meandertalltelling vineyarns yearning with a mouthful of words and sounds disintegrating and reintegrating in re-creation slippages sopping through fissures and interstices encrusted with meanings rusted the issues becoming like tissues of which here and there where endings begin misfiring into misreadings and mishearings electrochemically pitterpattering and stuttering discombobulating
into disjuncture a swarm a shrapnel a multiplicity of voices and sounds following
upon the exploding of fixed meaning and instrumental language careening into disorder and this ordering again this writing as yarn
translated into yearning a
yearning translated into yarn to spin and to wrapped around which wrap around what which wrap round afternoon
it is said and what of it is what and why the in as it is a trace to sentence falling
think of for hours I would lay paralyzed thinking about the space
between things and what it means for us the truth that it reveals for us the space between our thoughts and things between ourselves and the world so-called the emptiness within us and between each other there can never be a complete identity of the represented with its re-presentation – he whispers hoarsely under his breath – there can never be the mutual identity of subject and object in art and therefore between the subject and the world there can never be a healing of the rift within us and between us and the world because there never was a separation to begin with the gap itself is the passage the conduit the tissue that connects us to the other there can never be a complete identity between the artificial
and the natural such identity would erase the differences the distinctions between one and the other the space in between I mean to say it is the gap in between them that makes for an interesting day the artist shouldn’t have any trouble any problem in dealing with the actual separation between things between us and them between the representation and the thing represented and the so called inaccuracies that lie between them it is in fact the imperfections in the representation that are so interesting to me! – he squeals suddenly raising his voice – it is these inaccuracies! these imperfections! that reveal something truthful finally! no they shouldn’t have any difficulty in dealing with alienation no difficulty dealing with their alienation – he sneers - the one they’re always going on about endlessly whining about how bad they’ve got it how they don’t get any respect from society that no one cares for their work anymore how everything has been commodified turned into an object for consumption their works replaced by so much mindless entertainment they shouldn’t have any trouble dealing with all that their isolation I mean to say their separateness and what happens in the space in between why I cherish my alienation you see I take good care of it no longer do I have to listen to the inanities of the so-called common man no longer is my time wasted having to listen to their idiocies you see the most rancid sickness emanates
from their putrid traps! their decaying minds unknowingly spreading their poison to all corners of the earth! – he says – of course there is no such thing as nature certainly no unspoiled nature not here not on this earth the very idea itself the label itself: unspoiled nature is always already the beginning of its debasement whatever nature there is we see as so much raw material we call it a resource something to be used as we see fit a place to run away to when the hellish conditions we have created for ourselves and each other grow too hard to bare it is our consolation we use it as we use everything else the way we use each other . . . but what is this thought of happiness that still lurks in the midst of this dark chaos? this – he grins exposing stained, rotting teeth, dark eyes smiling sadly – what is this little flicker of hope one sees here and there in the endless morass of our existence?
a rebellion is necessary against the privileged . . . against all forms of privilege I like a great wind arising suddenly in me! everywhere! all around me! – he suddenly sits up raising his voice – all of the privileged whether on the right or the left they are all the same in the end power hungry controlling shits! a revolt
moment turned unfolding said the only of which it is the of of it itself as de-forming into chiaroscuro eye language just begun by no to something nothing is but what to remains of motions terminated there is an and much more that is to say what and then pushing what words wait for thought spacing
all sorts of things rush by
all that and much more rushed by
what does it river mean?
by foot or on bicycle becoming and going into off course with a smile
a stray stream into endings just beginning accidental and resisting foiled interest into messy logic other territories from discourses ended divisive islets of meaning meandering as growing sand banks move across the page careening whenever and ever as whatever it means to mean a sea helps to place a space a splace
splicing the place and the space into two overlapping waves licking
there is why a wall to ask a mark
because becomes turned alleged
question before to
speak in knots which is to say
what a cul de sac
a ledge where voice is what and who
speaks of it
terminated breathing as song initiated at moments before a blank page wavefunction as what be before becomes comes into being be cuase be becomes why be
against those who hold power a revolt
directed at those of greater intelligence
those with larger brains those with more convolutions in their brains
we must put them under for just
as the powerful invariably take advantage of the powerless so to do the intelligent take advantage of
those of lesser intelligence what’s
more those of greater intelligence they enjoy it they become addicted to it to cruelty
they love the cruelty they savor
it relish it there is no birth and there is no death –
the old man grumbles staring at the floor – only an ongoing process of
change an ongoing process of dependant
origination nothing has a life of its
own an existence a being of its own everything is dependant on something else
for its existence nada se pierde todo se transforma – he mutters
frowning, frantically clutching at himself – how did he know this? how did that imbecile Descartes know
this? something to be denied everything!
the formless forms like
shadows moving in the night - he winces and abruptly changes tack
– we are involved in something greater than ourselves each one of us as individuals something greater larger than ourselves something which we do not fully
comprehend we would be nothing if not
for the chaos of writing thinking the breathing in and out of order and
disorder nothing but monologues we are we are nothing except monologues yes a collection of our monologues pitted against each other
like swords lances one monologue against another deaf and blind blind and
deaf monologues like tongues tongues lashing out against each other like swords . . .
it is when we are rid of belief completely when we at last throw away the crutches we have for so long held on to for life when at long last the entire scaffolding that supports the cumbersome structures of becoming of personality and so much wishful thinking has collapsed and we drag ourselves barely able to crawl from the rubble of our assumptions our preconceived notions and prejudices only then can we truly be free free to be nothing nothing at all even before the denials walled me in paralyzed me and walled me in in a gradual then in a sudden flurry of nos maybes and possibly maybes that buried me alive – he whispers hoarsely – beginning to soliloquize. . . . one fears the consequences of all thinking . . . I mean everyone has the most monstruous things in their heads the same goes for music and literature for the arts in general if music if literature is to survive at all it must move away move out of the academic environment it must become independent from the academic environment where they become stifled by academic politics there is no such thing as intellectual or creative freedom in academia this is a myth in such an environment everything is reduced down to a collection of skills that have nothing to say it is an environment that kills the meaningfulness of the work completely trivializing it reducing it all down to a collection of skills with nothing to say it is no wonder that the words “skills” and “kills” are anagrams of each other skillfully killing killing me
skillfully - he chants softly - empty it’s all empty! it soon turns into a kind of hell in which meaninglessness reigns supreme – he cackles maliciously – and yet . . . and yet at the same time there is something incredibly naïve in the whole academic endeavor – he begins to laugh uncontrollably – I mean this idea of greatness
laid bare bore because agape in
because becomes be caused became turned away things turned out commencing here against each other and one another as be before goes round unfolding into answer
wrapped around which wrap around what which wrap round afternoon moment turned unfolding said it is said and what of it is what and why the in as it is a trace to sentence falling the only of which it is the of of it itself as de-forming into chiaroscuro eye language ended by no to something nothing is but what to remains of motions terminated there is and much more that is to say what and then pushing what words wait for thought spacing
sign flotsam discombobulation
some jetsam to forget
and then some more again so what of it it means what it is what means it is -guished from each other
-sively ideological nobody now knows what dissipation’s when a talk a breeze of doubt to what of it and then some edges left to the to undo the what it is that these are a tangent of
is almost a say
the page where on when the moment to each and away another to which is or is not on debris is on on as away is a bare is a or is on a cloudlesssstreaming
achieving greatness historical greatness wanting to be a historical figure a Beethoven a Mozart a Bach what have you! the puerile arrogance of it all something like that can’t be orchestrated willed to happen! in any case it is the chaos of the work I find so compelling the gaps and fissures the truth of its imperfections is what matters most to me it is always a work in progress – he says distantly as he looks out the window, his face turning to white, black and gray as in an old noir film - loci of order in a constantly shifting ocean of rising entropy the work emerges from the chaotic and disorderly as islands of negentropy it is the relationship between order and disorder and what happens in between that has always motivated me the reverse side as it were of causal determinism with my writing I seek out that ebullient state that place close to fertile chaos from which forms are constantly being born random fluctuations at a local level have the potential of propelling the writing toward a point of bifurcation a point at which the direction of change becomes unpredictable just as physical systems that are far from thermal and chemical equilibrium may act indeterminately and I don’t only mean this in a figurative sense no mainly considering that
language thought and writing are all aspects of that psycho-physical system we call the mind the brain the point is that small random fluctuations in the work in the act of working on the work
not only can bring about macroscopic transformations in the larger structures of it but they can also produce profound changes in the reader as they most certainly do in the writer the work begins at multiple trail heads as it were multiple trajectories from which different sequences of events can unfold just as nature changes form in moments of truly protean metamorphosis in this case our so called everyday language is inadequate to describe what is taking place even scientific and mathematical languages are unsuitable – he says - the various languages of the arts are far more suitable for the task no longer does the work emerge only from the idea the story as idea where language is but a mere vehicle for the story the mere instrument for the story’s expression no whatever story there is it emerges from the linguistic material itself in other words from the structures constructed from this material I mean to say it emerges from the different possibilities the permutational possibilities always already present in the linguistic material the text I’ve been writing
of course – he continues in a somewhat pedantic, academic tone - lies in an indeterminate area between subject and object its status as an object not clear nor is its intersubjective function clear either it is in fact a kind of quasi-object I mean to say not an object as such and yet still it is one given that it is in the world at the same time however it is not a subject at least not yet not until someone has read and internalized it but at the same time it is a kind of quasi-subject given that it does indeed designate a subject
over the years – the old man whispers cautiously – I came to the gradual realization that I no longer loved music no longer loved writing it no longer loved teaching it I came to the gradual and shocking realization that not only did I no longer love it but that I actually now abhorred it that what was once a liberating experience was now had now become a new form of imprisonment a new burden I came to the gradual realization that everything about music
so what of it
it means a what
it is it means
we each kept each we kept
a then now and when in what to which to say a violet
means by a sea repeating
we is a cul de sac
reproduced enough becomes into being because such that enough again restriction ended
to antipathy this day of clear cut divisions moans by a sea retreating so tiresome the things
and meaning the names now droop away what breath blows what leaves into sun’s waves
coalescing whose inflection beyond prone language something sometimes remains ended
motions piece a blank plank across out by the telling reasons with light interjections scrambled
howl’s appropriate place is when
and now a remains
from which broken erroneous formation message
continuity gap agape frozen circuit plosives meaning “I” as of in the with what distinction plenty marks a place
enough more resting just begun
endings growing again meaning laid bare because things and one answers became speak
a ledge terminated and then it is what –sively
was nothing more than an unbearable tedium the same I can say about all the other arts especially in light of everything that is happening in our world today in particular the massive destruction of the natural environment the arts are starting to look embarrassingly irrelevant more so considering how the entertainment industry has monopolized what social spaces are left no work of art . . . not all the works of art in the world put together can replace a species of plant or animal that has gone extinct in light of everything . . . – he pauses looking out the window distractedly and as he does the background voices begin to swell in a subtle but steady crescendo inundating the room, my mind, with the swarming buzzing sound of a crowd swirling round and round making me reel, feeling dizzy, I fall into a waking dream from which I can’t release myself no matter how hard I try to move, my body is paralyzed as I sink further into the miasma of sounds swirling around me like the hypnotic, throbbing, interweaving sounds of a steamy jungle at night – . . . names connected have metaphors entanglemeant physically is from what “you” tells me is “what”not an “is” pondering away at the reason they once represented more such leaves into pounding entangle meant represented since metaphors not at this juncture gone astray wondering an “is” blows even as “is” is what things once began so tiresome connected as words made more words wait windblown just because what this is interactive made so enough and once again languaging as wheat in fricative (in)formation as waves crests reconnecting to valleys of the moon reads into just and what in and gives this the constantly dawning into waves, what music clear colliding light which roots wait in flux so figured into ever at what without warning confined the blood an expression as purpose wrenching everything as thoughts are of night that writing is a thinking and then pushing what waits for pause listening to the whereabouts of when what words were saying in whirls spinningout and what was “meta” a metaphor for a restless word in multiplicity ground a possible nexus which shoots out flames turbubabulent becoming and going in places the night’s ongoing change remains sometimes approximate wandering into similarity’s device looping round ‘n round background this rhythm means intrinsically relational
everything cascading writing friction to of such imprecise
a knowledge meant this that of course into disorder ragged fragments restlessly rustling to stop and to have such feelings hushed as if meant to be more lights forming sporadic glassy ruffled edges across isolated words trajectories’ curvilinear drip down an almost unwinding face up-ended for whatever there is an excrescence frozen over into shreds of darkness
coming and going and staying to face the waiting a wisp of her hair it can as always whatever a what not only knots of this content as if by an intent bouncing an elaborate period this as dislocation in an echo as away thinks an easy can be thought as much as many or any as much as tissue toward tide glance happening while the puddles, for the violence me ever present leaves, an attempt to prove this gray in the usual copy of “these” in the usual black and white soliloquy, seeping abstract position, arrangements next to a rebellion chronically superior there among the wounded, played slovenly – paid slavery as a kind of charity party lined up for needed disgrace soliloquy distance as no is to maybe the cheese wiz - from right to left the arrogance reeks distended in slow motion – an
attempt as I was saying privileged convolution on the right or left against
directed those from the usual running tire tracks present as headaches
occupational hazard and then these the page away is then by now a means such that this day of clear cut erosions began deforming
landscapes of languages colliding as wheat against blue to light of fiction
fricative nasal plosives in-
formation with or lately at least all sorts all that what and does rushed by on foot talking at yaking becoming smile knots freely disproportionate into a reduced version of this continuity as something other than working against the shaping final fallen repetition I mean plenty marks a place some so such and so such is enough such that enough some so much said made so gives this constantly summer into interactive
about which just then so remembers
what this is stories foreigneous ‘n everything just because discovered at
intrusive of when is then
windblown light about which these so figured words wait in wobbly places so much so words
more much so that then enough much so that made when is said so much so said that them words again seldom said begun again so said and
– there I would leave me be and my irreducible secondarity - hypocrisy consensus continuity contest for the extreme center – permafrost encounters unconscious fee waivers for free meal ticket delinquency – brawny intellectual battleship personalities bullying my goldfish - the John Wayne of the left is always eager to punish - the one on the right was bad enough, always eager to please power – now, this monologues – and other swords lances deaf and blind pitted knot against knot not to comprehend disorderly “everyday life” something if nothing . . . sweep it all under the rug of this content - stigmata keeps dripping innocence into the dustiny generator – cannot be identified with the ugen discombobulator of cause and effect ‘cause which is just as well doneAction: 2 – no page numbers here and there where I was this content as discontent soliloquy people you’ve been before they push and they shove and won’t bend to your will wholesale spirit petrified as “they” sees fit - I’m for an anarchy of production and not a poetry of narrative unity and ease of communication if “I” “may” “say” “so.” Duality self reference manual. the brain is a sex organ when they say so – ay mi Corazon de limousina! automatic autonomic authoritarian –ism is what the us in U.S. stands for . . . night that writing is a thinking and then pushing what waits for pause listening to the whereabouts of when what words were saying in whirls spinning out and what was “meta” a metaphor for a restless word in multiplicity ground a possible nexus which shoots out flames turbubabulent becoming and going in places the night’s ongoing change remains sometimes approximate wandering into similarity’s device looping round ‘n round background this rhythm means intrinsically relational everything cascading writing friction to of such imprecise a knowledge meant this that of course into disorder ragged fragments restlessly rustling to stop and to have such feelings hushed as if meant to be more lights forming sporadic glassy ruffled edges across isolated words trajectories curvilinear drip down an almost unwinding face up-ended for whatever there is an excrescence frozen over into shreds of darkness coming and going and staying to face the waiting a wisp of her hair it can as always whatever a what not only knots of this content as if by an intent bouncing an elaborate period this as dislocation in an echo as away thinks an easy can be thought as much as many or any as much as tissue toward tide glance happening - just as well intransigent motherfucker wants music for every sentence tireless wannabe insular self motivating international organization hypnotic surveillance insecure safety pin cushion system - machine fabrication the old fashion runway – they always say what they think except when they’re talking – sign out latest news misfortune quiz queen – imprison meant: why these sudden ever present leaves of text flying about everywhere? fluttering breathing us as individuals involved in winces abruptly greater than ourselves burping we each are one of a collection of doneAction 2: against each other which belief crutch clutching at wishful thinking throwaway cumbersome disabled structures whose scaffolding onto held up long ago for support of collapsible preconceived notions – it is when we throw away supported life system personalities we drag assumptions mind telling me forehead thoughts the wind of what “I” means – clockwise crawl space pulling the noise production discourse solipsistic slurping cowlick promotion – sex organ sextuple fugato temper tantrum for ever fever reverse river discontent this content the “he” sees everywhere - “he” “stays”
“quietly” – disgruntle this clockwise academic crawlspace pulling the noise production discourse solipsistic slurping cow lick discourse as noise production promo sees the eye speaks the seems to ‘ear another voice in the background mumbling something if nothing breathing us as individuals involved in winces abruptly greater than ourselves we each are an us one being a collection of monologues and other sword lances deaf and blind pitted not to comprehend disorderly doneAction:2 against each other with belief crutches clutching at wishful thinking all sorts of things rush by,
all that and much more rushed by,
what does it river mean?
by foot or on bicycle becoming and going into off course with a smile
a stray stream into endings just beginning accidental and resisting foiled interest into messy logic
divisive islets of meaning
meandering as growing sand banks move across the page careening whenever and ever as whatever it means to mean a sea helps to place a space a splace splicing the place and the space into two overlapping waves licking there is why a wall to ask a mark because becomes turned alleged question before to speak in knots which is to say what a cul de sac a ledge where voice is what and who speaks of it terminated breathing as song initiated at moments before a blank page wavefunction as what be before becomes comes into being be cuase be becomes why laid bare bore because agape in cloudlessness be because becomes be caused became turned away things turned out commencing here against each other and one another as be before goes round unfolding into answer wrapped around which wrap around what which wrap round afternoon moment turned unfolding said it is said and what of it is what and why the in as it is a trace to sentence falling the only of which it is the of of it itself as de-forming into chiaroscuro eye language ended by no to something nothing is but what to remains of motions terminated there is and much more that is to say what and then pushing what words wait for thought spacing sign flotsam discombobulation
some jetsam to forget
and then some more again so what of it it means what it is what means it is -guished from each other -sively ideological nobody now knows what dissipation’s when a talk a breeze of doubt to what of it and then some edges left to the to undo the what it is that these are a tangent of is almost a say the page where on when the moment to each and away another to which is or is not on debris is on on as away is a bare is a or is on a cloudlesssstreaming more such that when is then again what blows leaves into valleys entanglemeant moon even as pounding against the gloom is what an “is” is what entanglemeant physically is from things once represented drooping away so tiresome began since and meaning names connected have metaphors what “you” tells me is “what” not an “is” pondering away at the reason they once represented more such leaves into pounding entangle meant represented since metaphors not at this juncture gone astray wondering an “is” blows even as “is” is what things once beganso tiresome connected as words made more words wait windblown just because what this is interactive made so enough and once again languaging as wheat in fricative (in)formation as waves crests reconnecting to valleys of the moon reads into just and what in and gives this the constantly dawning into waves, what music clear colliding light which roots wait in flux so figured into ever at what without warning confined the blood an expression as purpose wrenching everything as thoughts is of night that writing is a thinking and then pushing what waits for pause listening to the whereabouts of when what words were saying in whirls spinning out and what was “meta” a metaphor for a restless word in multiplicity ground a possibility the wind of what “I” means clockwise academic crawl space pollution pulling the noise production discourse solipsistic slurp cowlick promotion, sex organ fugato personality tantrum implant jerking off, pretty please discontent, this content was as if by dreams an intent, for ever fever, gotta go to potty training for ideologues contest café mentality twist with an academic cringe for two – academic meandering as growing sand banks move across the page careening whenever and ever as whatever it means to mean a sea helps to place a space a splace logic of other territories from discourses ended divisive islets of meaning . . . in light of everything . . . – I hear him say as if at a distance, suddenly jolting my attention back into the presence of the room - in light of everything . . . – he says again as the whirlwind of voices subsides into the background - the story began somewhere I know – he says - but soon got lost among many others and I’m hard pressed to say which one matters most though it seems the turbulence the mayhem the energy generated by them all is what counts that conjuncture is what’s worth telling about and behind it behind the writing that upon which and against which the writing writes resisting the indagations where pen and pencil are like daggers with ever blunted points prying at the surface of things as one tries to gather in a few gestures the facts and events into a landscape which might give it all some kind of sense wherein even the senseless has its place - he is standing motionless, blankly staring out the window with mouth agape and cigarette in hand, a long, thin string of saliva and phlegm hangs from his trembling lower lip gently swaying back and forth with each raspy inhalation – all the faces all the voices blend into one face blend into one voice – he whispers cautiously - it is the silence that listens it listens to our listening this unfathomable eternal silence at the heart of all things . . .
where am I now? – he starts again abruptly - the deluge has passed leaving behind a blanket of white petals and green leaflets strewn about the ground and my shadow my shadow is lost among the shadows of others further down the road the muddied furrowed roads I look down upon them with frowning forehead aching the darkening shadows of trees growing long in the cool evening air I need to see know where the river goes where it jumped up from the ground among ancient rocks unknown why it rolls along seemingly without a care not knowing why or where its next turn or jump will end without a care it leaps aimlessly flowing as if life itself
where are we now? the deluge is past or will soon be for it is still raging and we are here alone alone on this rock over which a cloud of dust rises above our heads
over cities and mountains unknown a handful of dust over the eons multiplied rising above the hills over the restless cities of the night we call our home these labyrinthine thoughts voices and images coming out of murky walls then absorbed back into oblivion echoing a handful of dust over eons multiplied having become a desert this labyrinth of bones rising over rooftops and hills this handful of dust over the years multiplied now having become a billowing cloud of brown and gray a handful of dust or ashes over the eons having become a desert lifted up into the heavens by a restlessly searching wind this cold and empty wind we hear rattling our doors trying to get in a cascade of sounds images and thoughts pounding on our walls a clatter of dried out bones rattling the doors and windows only to be absorbed back into oblivion again this cold and empty wind blowing through me and everything alone in the vertex of a groan that issued ages ago from where? from where? from the center of where as these words issue from the center of who? of what? of where? a cold breath issuing from a beginningless past issued ages ago from where? from the center of where? just as these words issue from the center of where from the center of where am I now?
I will never say I because of everyone I won’t speak again no I won’t speak to anyone no one will speak to me I will listen to no one just as no one listens to me I won’t speak to myself there is nothing left to say nothing but dust will spew from my mouth dust blown by the cold wind the freezing cold wind that incessantly blows through everything throughout millennia from a beginningless past
I can no longer stand the sight of myself thus the lack of mirrors in this house for when I see my reflection I see someone I don’t recognize someone a stranger has taken over my reflection my image has been usurped by a total stranger my body has been taken over usurped by a total stranger my mind is all that’s left of me it is the last strong-hold of me this is why there are no mirrors in this house the large mirror in the second floor hall has been covered over with a sheet giving it a ghostly appearance at night no matter I am not frightened by ghosts it is only the reflection of the one who has usurped my image my body who frightens me sometimes my reflection in the window pane frightens me I don’t know who that is no matter I sleep on the top floor the attic my sister’s atelier there I feel safe I like to lie awake at night and listen to the wind blow watch as dark clouds drift by listen to the rain taping on the sky-light this is the only nature left us the only nature left in this dead gray city of ours – he mumbles listlessly, I can hear the North Sea wind picking up outside, it rattles the doors and windows of the old house, as if a beast trying to get in -
it is this kind of generalized distortion that gives the thinking its rich delicious delirious quality – he says quietly – its saturation with branches twigs turns reflections eddies and curlicues tangential planes and lines of flight somos divagantes – he mutters to himself in Spanish, face up close to the window staring at his reflection which is now hazed over by condensation - we are divergent can’t distinguish anymore between night and day day becomes night night becomes death and emptiness day becomes black as pitch and night searing white light they blend into each other leaving not much of a gap a small fissure perhaps which if one were to fall into it one would lose oneself in a swirling miasma of gray hues which is where I long to be where I belong they blend together becoming like photographic negatives of each other I go forth arrayed in a searing white robe into the cold darkness of a night eternal as I reach the center point the image is reversed I am suddenly dressed in a frigid ink-black gown disappearing blindly into the searing white night helplessly resisting all drives to accumulated meaning into a continuum of time understood as force I throw myself into death chanting I throw myself among the dead – he whispers hoarsely now chanting - I throw myself among the dead I had always hoped to free myself from the intellectual vanity so prevalent everywhere especially in the arts and academia trying to listen to the fragile formations of things and messages coming from within the noise the chaos seeming to me to have the delicate enigmatic construction of snow flakes in the wind – he says squinting my way, looking derisively amused – yet to be involved in this sort of thing the arts whichever one you may think of whether music literature painting or film to be involved in this sort of thing is nothing more than self indulgence sheer egotism narcissism no more no less especially in light of everything that is taking place in our world today I mean what we are doing to it to each other to ourselves the utter callousness the mindless destruction this rage against life we see everywhere this absolute nihilism in which we wallow grinning stupidly lost in our little pleasures our paltry entertainments in light of all this any intention of seriousness in the arts is laughable no more than vain parody by which we convince ourselves we are doing something important making an important contribution to culture to society baring witness to the foreclosure of the other – he sneers mockingly - assuming our various critical and moralistic stances which are supposed to signal the world we care . . . why even the critique of moralism itself is a moralistic stance! o manufactured nothingness in the factory of infinite vanity – he chants nastily – do you know those lines? do you remember them? it was Bataille I think who wrote them the death one finds lurking in the best of intentions lurking in all things intellectual the death one finds lurking in the life of the mind so-called of course – he says hoarsely, annoyed – everything one says everything one writes consists solely of a string of the most abysmal errors and lies the most despairing distortions and falsifications all thinking all writing being excremental the consequences of which are immeasurable however hard one may try to focus on and pin point the truth with one’s mind pen in hand with one’s concentration however diligent and determined one may be to tell the truth the pen perhaps the paper one writes on maybe the ink or the hand which has a mind of its own the self-organizing machinery of language itself leads one astray away past the confines of memory showing it to be a farce an illusion an invention nothing more than fiction . . . into territories unknown into dissolution forcing one to write an intricately patterned meditation on the transience of all things human resisting struggling against the stultifying spiritual inertia of social order and reason I have survived quite well the death of gods and goddesses in me reality is conflict . . . but of course! it is the eye that creates the image! the object seen the ob-seen – he cackles meanly and then continues – the eye is in fact a projector it shoots out radiation from the brain the mind with the eye as projector the mind gives the object seen its shape even the sun whose light we rely on for clarity is no more than an unformed blotch of ink above us until the eye gives it shape definition not only does the eye give shape and definition to the object seen no – he says flatly - it also gives direction but whose eye is this? to whom does it belong? it has a life a mind of its own I can’t say anymore only that I don’t know how this all works what we like to call reality more so considering that the categories recently articulated by the science of chaos no longer conform to the traditional dichotomy of order and disorder rather our senses of chaos are contested multiple calling into question the ability of mathematical and scientific languages to provide clear cut meaning . . . the assassin sings in chaos and his song is a consolation it is the music of the mass of meaning – he says chanting hoarsely again – the law of chaos is the law of ideas of improvisations and seasons of belief as Stevens would have it - he chuckles happily - we live this way from day to day until we die pretending to know pretending to find some kind of wisdom by which we can steer our course through life but it is the eye independent of one’s will that determines the direction of things and they are multiple crisscrossing each other forming an intricate web of meanings and directions that overwhelm the horizons in the four directions with the slow motion crumbling beauty of a summer night’s dream a manufactured emptiness in the factories of infinite solitude – he says slowly, wincing as if in pain - one goes through life like this stumbling from one horror to the next a beautiful horror unable to protect oneself from the contingent and its beauty but mostly unable to protect oneself from oneself the unpredictability in one self we have lost our senses not just our minds you see no but our bodies we have lost our bodies as well because we have denied our physicality our somatic experience of the world! – he cries out meekly, collapsing back into his chair – there comes the terrifying moment in one’s life when one realizes that all knowledge is enveloped in darkness and whatever lofty aspirations one may have had spiritual intellectual artistic or what-have-you were nothing more than fantasies one pursued in order to fend off the ever present meaninglessness as felt in this cold air this air is the air of meaninglessness that part of the sky that small window on the sky with its random brush strokes of clouds those gray dark clouds are what fascinate me more than anything else their apparent randomness that small corner with its occasional gull sweeping past as in a Constable study giving one the impression of ages slowly passing by in front of ones eyes like a load of hay it holds so much for me it seems aware it seems to know I’m watching it knows my longings that small corner of the sky resembling a Constable study seems so utterly meaningful it seems to be saying something I don’t know what don’t know why – he insists trailing off into the damp silence of the evening –
you see – he suddenly bursts out again - the impetus toward conquest the drive toward domination we are possessed by this drive which began thousands of years ago perhaps a million years ago or so when we developed the first tools and discovered fire and realized our predators had begun to fear us more than we feared them when we first caught a glimpse in the dark pit of our imaginations that we could prevail over nature and all its creatures long before the birth of the Buddha Jesus Christ Mohammed long before all those others that followed all the ugly saints and so called spiritual teachers – he wheezes - the Krishnamurtis the Suzukis the Dalai Lamas and what not as well as the western philosophers the so called great thinkers of our culture with their irrational faith in reason this drive which over the centuries has been incrementing exponentially is now nearing the fulfillment of its telos – he says desperately gasping for air - that is to say the absolute domination of nature of the world which means its total fragmentation consumption and destruction in light of all that – he gestures impatiently with cigarette in hand - the Buddhist notion that one individual’s enlightenment automatically as if by pressing a button enlightens the rest of the world turns out to be a mere fantasy and is evidence of a naïve and mechanistic view of reality so-called in order for such a notion to work as it were in such a wide spread manner requires the conscious participation of all those who would be enlightened it requires that they care . . . the two major man made catastrophes in all of history the first and second world wars and all the barbarities and atrocities witnessed therein not to mention slavery and colonialism should be a very blunt wakeup call for anyone harboring any illusions of changing the world – he emphasizes mockingly – just by sitting facing a wall supposedly meditating . . . this realization has vanquished everything – he sneers – every desire to be something or someone every desire to achieve something to become someone something whatever that may be . . . it should also be a wakeup call to all those who continue unchecked with their destructive ways a wakeup call as to the true nature of the human animal who and what we really are . . . as you can see I don’t have much use for religion nor philosophy for that matter – he says – I have no use for organized religions Catholicism especially the human animal plugged at both ends by God the human body bound and gagged castrated and crushed under the marmoreal weight of that dark religion’s monstruous institutions this God’s no prude has no qualms about violating sodomizing its own children – he snickers – just as we have no qualms no shame in violating raping everything that walks destroying the very earth itself – he says cackling meanly -
human beings people – he grimaces - being the congenital opportunistic cowerers we really are live by cover ups and amnesia there is no crime however great that is not forgotten after a few weeks – he says – no political atrocity no crime against humanity against life itself that is not forgotten in a week or two we are positively congenital cover uppers of crimes – the old man says again wheezing – people that is to say human beings will cover up any crime no matter how vile because we are as I have already stated congenital opportunistic cowerers for years decades centuries even our so-called leaders our politicians our so-called business leaders our corporations and ceos our bankers and financiers have committed all manner of murderous frauds and crimes yet these cowerers cover up for them the people themselves who are the ones defrauded the ones who end up paying for the crimes of those in power with their taxes and all too often with their lives in some war cover up for them – the old man says – evidently suffering from some kind of masochism some kind of Stockholm syndrome or some kind of very deep-seated low self esteem this so-called average citizen who puts up with all kinds of humiliation at work and who works his entire life away who works himself or herself to death who is enslaved to his mortgage student loans and other debts or who barely makes it to the end of the month scrimping and saving just to get by living from paycheck to paycheck this so-called average citizen who dutifully spends his entire life as a cog in the production/consumption machine and who after years of this kind of undignified subservience to those who control the machine ends up being a machine himself or herself as the case may be this so-called average citizen – he says again - who all too often ends up in an early grave and if not should he or she as the case may be reach old age at the end of her life looks back and sees her life has been wasted sees he has spent his entire life serving the interests of those in power those who control the machine she sees her life has been for nothing empty a spiritual a creative an emotional and intellectual waste land he sees that he has sacrificed his real self to the interests of those in power she sees that she never really had a chance to find out who she really is given that almost from the day he was born her subjectivity as been completely colonized by the various ideologies that serve power his subjectivity has been completely colonized by the official discourses that swamp the social space of our so-called culture to the extent that those ideologies those discourses have become a kind of second nature which have accompanied the subject throughout his or her life and which the subject has learned to recognize as him or herself the subject never stood a chance never was allowed to find out who he or she really is never got the chance to develop into an individual in the true sense of the word – he says gasping for air – this pathetic so-called average citizen is all too often all too compliant all too willing to vote to support those who do not mean him or her the workers the middle and working classes any good they only mean to use them the so-called lower classes exploit them take as much away from them as they can without giving anything in return except more misery more suffering what those in power really want is to create a vast underclass indeed a slave class which they can use as they see fit decade after decade these unscrupulous politicians financiers and industrialists bankers and ceos have lied to the people and cheated them lied to them about the wars they the people are sent to lied to us about the damage to our health and the environment caused by the various products they sell us for years lied to us about the water we drink the air we breath and yet these cowerers that is to say the people themselves cover up for them make excuses for them wrapping themselves up in some kind of false twisted sense of nationalism some distorted sense of patriotism the lied to the deceived the cheated cover up for them make excuses for them cover up and make excuses for those who lie and cheat them make excuses for those who for all intents and purposes laugh at them in their faces laugh and spit in their faces the so-called general populace in it’s constant low self esteem and masoquism as I’ve already said evidently suffering from some kind of Stockholm syndrome is more than willing to put up with humiliation from those who have power over them why a dog has more self respect than that – the old man says – a petty thief is prosecuted and locked up for years by our justice system but those who defraud our country of millions and billions and who were greatly instrumental in the economic downturn we saw in two thousand and eight walk away free at worst chased out with a huge pension and huge bonuses rewarded with bailouts funded with our the people’s the defrauded’s tax money – he says – and no sooner is all this mentioned in the press in the various media just as suddenly is it covered up and forgotten by that very same press that very same media and supplanted with hundreds of other stories and that’s what they are stories a mixture of fact and fabrication more fiction than fact I dare say if you consider the effect the medium itself has on the message where what’s left out of the frame what isn’t talked about says more about the events portrayed than anything else the tedium is the message of the media such that meaning means business and business means . . . as usual – he chants softly and cackles - so too it is with the public the citizens who were swindled royally screwed they too lapse into total amnesia as if nothing had ever happened why our president sends thousands hundreds of thousands over a million to their deaths to a war created as we now know based on lies and misinformation committing one of the biggest crimes against humanity we’ve seen since the second world war crimes for which the president the vice-president and their accomplices should be arrested and brought here to the Hague to the International Tribunal here in the Hague and tried for crimes against humanity – he says breathing with difficulty - but the public the citizens who were lied to deceived by their president and others in his administration what do they do? nothing not a word or if they do indeed speak it is to defend him to make excuses for him and his murderous accomplices calling what the president and his associates did a mistake not a crime as we all know it really is the same goes for the majority of the press the very same press who first brought the deception to light who first alerted us the public that we had been lied to why they too waste no time in covering things up just as soon as they mention it a mere token gesture to fairness to democracy just as quickly do they cover it up simply by ignoring it by becoming completely oblivious to the crimes they were so quick to expose the previous day people spend all their lives cowering and covering up the most horrifying atrocities and crimes in order to survive themselves this is the truth – he says licking his lips – the president and his accomplices should be brought to the Hague to the International Tribunal and tried for crimes against humanity as I’ve already said over a million people died in that ghastly war many of them innocent women and children the elderly and infirm their entire country completely destroyed and plundered left a complete shambles and nobody seems to notice nobody seems to care the entire history of imperialism and colonialism in the so-called Middle East and all the atrocities we’ve seen during the past century completely ignored completetly forgotten fading into the oblivion of our collective that is to say our mass amnesia – he says – most people do not care about democracy do not care about freedom don’t even bother thinking what that might mean they take it for granted most people care more about their life styles than they do about democracy this is the truth – he says panting – as long as they have their little homes their 2.3 children their two cars their suvs and their large screen tvs they don’t care about democracy most don’t even know what that word means as long as they have their electronic gadgets their tablets and their so-called smart phones the last thing they care about is democracy most people just want to be comfortable – he says – comfortable and entertained distracted they don’t care who or how that comfort is provided them or the price they have to pay as long as they feel secure even if that security is a false security they don’t care this is the truth – he says with disdain - I just want to get by I hear them say they just don’t want to be bothered with difficult choices or issues they don’t want their conscience disturbed as long as they have their little entertainments and titillations they just don’t care all those facile distractions with their cheap emotions and pleasures but of course sooner or later the veneer wears thin the various entertainments and distractions begin to repeat themselves the various entertainments and distactions become redundant and therefore boring tedious one begins to have to tolerate them instead of enjoy them they begin to wear thin and the emptiness and pain they conceal starts to show through the utter meaninglessness of their lives begins to assert itself with its cold silent emptiness – he says – their minds are deeply conditioned by all those distractions and empty shallow entertainments their television shows their so-called smart phones their computers and so-called social media which ironically makes them anti-social conditioning their minds with so-called sound bites and predigested trivial information short bursts of information which do not require people to develop the ability to pay undivided attention to something for long periods of time thus spoiling their minds and the swirling mucky mass of constant rapid stimuli of sensory overload desensitize their senses making them dull dull and dim witted . . . which leads to more boredom – he says - is it any wonder then that depression is so pervasive? is it any wonder that depression has reached pandemic proportions the world over? at one time it was the age of anxiety today it is the age of depression depression and anxiety together today it is both the age of anxiety and depression together a catastrophic combination
when I think about all this and how it has been hushed up over and over again year after year decade after decade not only by our government but also by the press the press whose job it is to inform us about the truth about what is really happening in our country our world it weighs heavily on my mind when I think about all this deceit corruption and atrocities we see everywhere in our world it preys on my mind it weighs heavily on my mind on my entire body to the point such that I often break out into terrible head aches skull craking nausea inducing mind numbing migraine head aches that paralyze me for days of course – he grumbles on - everyone has the most horrifying the most terrifying things in their minds most people today walk around go through life with the most terrifying thoughts and emotions in their minds and what’s most horrifying about this is that many if not all of them go through life completely unaware of the bloody battle fields the ghastly murders the utterly dark and malicious torture chambers they have going on in their very own heads every day they go about their daily business their daily lives as if whistling in the dark like a frightened child wandering lost in an ancient cemetery at night – he whispers gruffly - the most hideous monstrosities fester in the unexplored dark corners of our minds not the least of which is that terrible gaping pit that terrible black hole of emptiness in the pit of our stomachs of our being which enters us through the umbilical chord before birth filling us up with the most horrifying sense of paralyzing dread that horrendous dark silence that knows – he says wheezing again - with every breath we take the monstrosities fester a moment longer fester and grow moment after moment in a desperate attempt to silence the emptiness nagging at our innards gnawing at our stomachs our guts we talk to ourselves we have this incessant monologue going on all the time and as if that were not enough we construct a theater within us in our heads in which various monologues argue and snake around each other in an endless chatter vying for attention the multitude of voices soon becoming a cloud of white noise a fog of gray noise blotting out the emptiness inside and as if that were not enough – he says again – we turn our attention to the infinity of monologues going on outside in the so-called world outside the ongoing monologues of our family and friends our colleagues the constant pointless chatter of the various media countless voices snaking around and arguing with each other all of whom also feel the acrid gnawing in their guts of that cold eternal emptiness nagging at them and from which they too hope to escape by means of distraction but of course there is no escaping no way out no way to get away from it the emptiness because there is no way to escape no way to get away from ourselves every breath one takes is the breath of meaninglessness every inhalation meaninglessness every exhalation meaninglessness – he says whispering hoarsely -
last night at dinner – he says wheezing through the cloud of smoke around him - I said to my sister: “the idea of meaning is suspect to me because in the world it arouses the impression that meaning is meaningful, and vice versa, what is meaningful has meaning, but the only meaning in meaningfulness,” I said to her, “is its meaninglessness, I mean to say, meaninglessness is itself meaningful” I said this to my sister while she nodded patiently as usual eating her peas, “just as the utter emptiness, the nothingness surrounding us, within us, is somehow full, filled with all the things we like to call existence, being” I said again, “while at the same time, there is an unsatisfactoriness in being, in fact, it is unbearable, full of meaninglessness, pervaded by emptiness, because it is impermanent, it is time itself in fact that’s what being means, signifies, if it must mean anything at all” I said, and she said while carefully chewing a mouthful of beef – he says smiling gleefully – “I know what you mean, your insights have always been a source of inspiration to me, they have always inspired my work” – he says she said while still chewing, her left cheek bulging, fork and knife in either hand – imagine that! myyyy words my so called insights an inspiration! my empty lost words an inspiration for her work! the poor thing! – he exclaims again getting agitated – those incomprehensible paintings of hers I love so much with their bits and pieces of materials of scraps of different kinds of materials constructed in piece meal fashion why art collectors and critics from all over the world come to see them she turns them away! they offer her thousands of Euros thousands of dollars and she won’t sell them any! she exhibits them herself in her gallery shows them to some of her friends and to me – he says approvingly - I have some in my bedroom they are magical windows doorways into other worlds windows into the implicate order depictions of turbulence disorders of various kinds one needs to be careful – he stammers cautiously, eyes wide open - they can take over the entire space suck you in you’ll never be found – he seems to drift off and then suddenly exclaims - and then she said to me: “there is the unending irritating tendency to think of all discourse as taking the form of a story, most people have the unbearable habit of negotiating their way through life by telling stories that explain who they are and what they are doing and they graft their stories onto the stories of others, onto ours” she said getting visibly despondent – he said – “upon hearing a word, as if a switch had been turned on, people are ready to tell you their lives’ stories, their sad meaningless stories” – his sister is supposed to have said – “as if some kind of mechanism had been turned on . . . upon hearing a word, a name, a place, the name of a place for example, they are more than willing to make a connection,” – he says she said emphatically with derision – “they want to communicate their experiences, express, show you the commonality of the experiences which supposedly we all share . . . they are more than willing, they are in fact alert, waiting for the opportunity when they can share their experiences and thus show you the connection,” - he said she said with increasing irritation – “but it is in solitude that I no longer feel lonely, it is in utter solitude and emptiness that one, that I, no longer feel the pangs of meaninglessness and emptiness,” she said seeming to me with increasing puzzlement, “meaninglessness is produced by their idiotic, empty chatter about the meaninglessness of life, a concatenation of catastrophes, a self fulfilling prophecy, like machines, at the flick of a switch, they go on and on, most people have this one, unmistakable, annoying characteristic” - he says she spat out with disdain while still assiduously chewing her food, and then he claimed she said - “the spider resembles the fly, its mate, a trick with which the spider lures its prey in . . .” she sat there impassibly staring at her food as if defeated – the professor says – but then she said with eyes lighting up, “we are, each one of us, made up of wildernesses, wildernesses interacting in a symbiotic, semiotic relationship, all one needs to do to understand this is to look at electron microscope photographs of various kinds of human tissue: skin, epithelial, lymphatic, I mean, the adenoids and their fluids; our blood, liver, lungs, bone and brain: the dura mater, the arachnoid mater, and the pia mater of the meninges; the adrenal, the thyroid, the pineal and various other kinds of glands; to be sure you will see different and varied kinds of landscapes, each with its own kind of texture and colors . . . not unlike geological formations, or the textures found in different types of plant life both terrestrial and aquatic . . . I fancy them to be like the surfaces, valleys, canyons and caves of unknown planets and asteroids in distant star systems, distant galaxy’s perhaps, I see them in my dreams . . . these are the sources of my paintings” she said looking at me suddenly happy – he claims – “I pour over countless books on anatomy, internal medicine, pathology and geology, avidly studying their illustrations, I like the photos of endoscopies and different types of surgeries too, but it is the pathologies that interest me most” – he claims she said emphatically – “the so-called anomalies, the various kinds of ulcers, tumors and cysts, the warts and birth marks, the different kinds of skin diseases such as psoriasis, rosacea and eczema and my favorites: ulcerated cavernous haemangioma and elephantiasis” she said while ravenously chewing on another piece of roast beef – the old man smirks with amusement – and then she said “it is these so-called internal landscapes that inform my work, I compare them to the illustrations in my geology books, look for correspondences, relationships between these inner and outer landscapes, the similarities are often uncanny between the textures, the colors, thus implying a deep connection between the outer and the inner so-called, I go on like this for hours, I can’t help it, clearly a kind of language emerges from these images, from their relationships” she said visibly agitated with excitement – he claims – “a language emerges from these shapes and colors, these textures . . . or rather a number of languages communicating with each other, criss-crossing each other through me, through my consciousness, my awareness of them, my seeing them acts as a conduit through which they, these languages, made up of various kinds of textures and colors, both organic and geological, belonging to different and distant contexts, the so-called inner and the so-called outer, communicate with each other through me, through my eyes, through my mind, and so too, communicate with me, instruct me, show me how a painting, a collage or sculpture is to be,” all this she said to me last night until the day began to emerge from the east and night began to dissolve and the machinery of rodents both areal and earth bound retired for the day – the old man hesitates, mouth agape and drooling, now staring with puzzlement at the floor, but suddenly inhaling, he continues in a distracted tone of voice – of course nothing could be easier than to go really insane from one moment to the next the problem is not so much that she has something in her head everybody has the most monstrous things in their heads and these go on without end until our deaths anybody else would become unhinged but not her it is still possible to be outside time and find that all moments co-exist simultaneously! – he exclaims raising his head - play in the gap between them but these are all ruins I mean most of humanity has its head filled with ruins most human beings have their heads full of ruins ruins and detritus like myself she loves the debris the fog the impending grayness she gathers the fragments the fragmented and rather than trying to make them whole again allows for the absences to make themselves felt why the cognitively fragmented world in which we live brings about the desire in many for over arching narratives – the old man says with growing glee – but these turn out to give only illusions of mending the prevalent fragmentation anticipating a totalizing vision that obscures the importance of local events . . . examples and samples . . . of course the description of the fragmentation itself becomes a kind of meta-narrative theorists today while subverting overarching theories one moment create new ones the next thus betraying their helplessness and hypocrisy! – he exclaims cackling meanly – thus situating themselves as authorities engaged in a power play whose objective is conquest claiming a territory domination as it’s always been! – he snickers mischievously – to be right always right but no! none of this matters! no matter no being no nothingness no right no wrong no description no overarching narrative no local narrative puaaaagggghhh! these are the strategies of academics jockeying for position trying desperately childishly to establish a secure a stable position for themselves ourselves a position of authority - he emphasizes derisively - even while preaching instability even while preaching the need for a critique of authoritarianism! these are the biggest hypocrites of all! academics! – he shouts - we are the biggest most notorious shits there are! with our idiotic self importance and cleverness! they are the most prolific producers of turds and consumers of blood who sodomize their students with their alleged truths! the truth it comes and goes and leaves us in the lurch - he suddenly entones - and now we think we can see it from our lofty perch – he chants playfully - of course of course but no! no! their cleverness comes after their idiocy which has always butt fucked it closely! all the various critiques of power of authoritarianism are privileged forms of discourse by virtue of the fact that they occur in and are the product of the academic environment to begin with! – he says pointedly – the ability to criticize is what puts us in a position of privilege to begin with I mean to say – he stabs aggresively at the air in front of him – it is because we are privileged to begin with that we have the time and ability to produce criticism of course with the best of intentions to enlighten on behalf of the truth the various truths we think in our arrogance others are unawares of as soon as we open our mouths as soon as we think we destroy someone’s life someone’s reputation is destroyed by our thinking our speaking our so-called criticisms we cannot help it it’s as natural as farting and as such we enjoy it it gives us immense pleasure in fact we revel in it! – the old man exclaims with joy scratching his ass and burping – why as I’ve already told you each critical endeavor involves a kind of mapping each description of reality a sort of emplotment by means of some kind of metaphorical language whether that of the so-called ordinary language we use on a daily basis or the more specialized languages like those of science and mathematical notation but perhaps recent developments in poetic language or musical notation would be better suited for this purpose – he remarks snidely – considering how their overarching narratives render stable the destabilizing methods of writers and poets . . . while rattling on and on with their various critiques of systematicism and closure literary theorists philosophers and scientists alike systematically overlook music and in particular the variety of musical notations we’ve seen throughout the centuries from that of the Gregorian neum to classical traditional notation with its whole and half notes its quarter notes its eighth and sixteenth notes and so on all of which indicate pitch duration harmony and texture when grouped vertically or into two or more simultaneous melodic lines as we see in counterpoint and more recently – he pontificates wheezing with agitation - in the twentieth century we find all kinds of developments in notation from so-called graphic notations which not only indicate duration and pitch but also density dynamics and a kind of gestural language up to and including of course a variety of programming languages or code as they say used in today’s computer music! – he gestures wildly with his hand while catching his breath - these are all kinds of notation many of which if not all lend themselves to a variety of interpretations thus involving an element of indeterminacy and so in varying degrees resisting closure and the absolutism of the systematic but of course – he says in a pedantic tone of voice - this requires a shift from notions insisting on the deterministic character of nature to one that emphasizes stochastic statistic descriptions why at the risk of sounding like one of those new age idiots the entire universe is capable of development and innovation! random fluctuations at the local level have the potential of propelling the writing the artistic work toward a point of bifurcation at which the direction of change becomes unpredictable! the work no longer emerges from the idea the story as idea were language is the mere vehicle for the story the mere instrument for the story’s expression rather whatever story there is it emerges from language itself from the structures formed from this material I mean to say it emerges from the different possibilities for construction present in the linguistic material itself the language and its ever changing constructs are what make and unmake me in it I appears and disappears free of all intentionality – the old man says – but as I was saying it is in fact their systematic avoidance of music of the musical and musical notation . . . I mean to say the critical theorists’ systematic avoidance of the musical and its various kinds of notation is significant! it contradicts their critique of systematicism and closure and is evidence not only of hypocrisy but of laziness laziness of the crassest basest kind . . . but the world is in order order of some kind . . . still the night indicates a certain fear of chaos I withdraw into my grief – he chants in a gentle, hoarse whisper, then, clearing his throat, he continues in a louder tone - of course all these theorists and philosophers with their posh academic careers and their luxurious publications are no better than parasites capitalizing as we do on the works the insights of poets and writers who came up with those ideas long before the theorists did many of whom died destitute and upon whose cadavers those disgusting vultures feed! once more we see that artists are decades centuries ahead of the theorists the philosophers and scientists! – he exclaims triumphantly – of course of course we all seek entertainment not meaning to be scientific about this you see psychoanalytic lets say we all seek to entertain ourselves to keep ourselves occupied in some manner somehow entertain ourselves while we wait while we wait we seek to entertain ourselves from the time we are born we begin to wait baring the unending tedium of existence we wait for the inevitable for the last moment to set us free from this unbearable mess about which we can do nothing except complain we go through life like this whinning helplessly expecting someone others to give us the answers to fix things for us one can hardly blame them those parasites those theorists and critics for the exploitation they indulge in from the time we’re born . . . the miraculous the wondrous the ever changing quality of light . . . wha’ happens is the ever changing quality of existence eludes us we become inured to it dull even we never fully recover from this trauma you see? this is our meaning the meaning that is us this is what we humanity mean – he says - this is what we have to give what we have to offer life better than those stupid questions we are always asking of life the ones we can’t help asking for we have become dull traumatized as we are by the newness of life its wondrous nature we are a part of the process the ongoing process assembled and slowly broken down over time disintegrating the monstrosity of it all – he stops suddenly and stares at me in the face, a smirk moves across his lips – but in any case – he continues in an amused tone – as I was saying whatever meaning it may have music is meaningful not only because it points to something as it were outside itself but because it means it just means – he emphasizes slowly – not what but just it just means and what it means is transience impermanence perhaps unwittingly emulating life so-called for what does that tiresome word mean? life nature the universe the everything existence being all of which are just as tiresome overused and vague and which lead us to the most idiotic question of all: what is the meaning of life? – he says mockingly – and the second most idiotic question: what is the most important thing in your life? why living of course! – he shouts annoyed – anybody else would have to be an absolute idiot to think otherwise – he scoffs – you have a life and you live it that is it’s so-called meaning that is our purpose to live most of the time people when they use those words when they ask those questions don’t know what they mean and so don’t know what they’re saying don’t know what they are talking about emplotment enjoyment employment emplotmeant - he chants childishly – of course there is no such thing as the soul why I lost mine early on when I was a child when I was a child my father told me animals and plants have no souls and neither do we this was of course a soulless thing to say to a child which proves my father and others like him right for how could he and those others say such a thing to a child if it wasn’t because they were indeed themselves lacking in souls? and what’s more how could they be the only ones lacking souls? either we all have souls are souls or we don’t aren’t souls now now in this agony my soul is filled with unspeakable delights – he whispers gently - sometimes I think I understand what she meant by those words Teresa of Avila what she meant the suffering of course is the body and mind dropping off the loss and the knowledge that what has been lost is irretrievable yet at the same time it is liberating! it is only possible to experience the devine if one is forced violently so into experiences filled with utter dread repulsion and ecstasy like say for instance having intercourse with a corpse or ingesting a corpse or both or any other kind of absolutely horrifying repulsive experience as is often seen on battlefields in wars intimately felt experiences that shock us out of our comfortable cocoon of habits what we fear most shocking us into wakefulness . . . but then again why? what for? who are we? what right have we to set anyone straight? what right does anyone have to do such a thing? what makes us think we are privy to the truth to real reality so-called? who’s to say that those who are asleep aren’t awake in their own dreaming? who’s to say they aren’t awake in their own way who’s to say you and I are awake and aren’t just dreaming we are here awake? ‘tis rather arrogant of anyone to make such claims claiming to know the truth with capital T what reality with capital R really is who among us can make such claims? sheer megalomania! plain and simple wake up to that! – he exclaims looking annoyed and takes another drag from his cigarette – some idiot with deep seated insecurities for which she feels she must somehow compensate some idiotic narcissist feeling he has something to prove finally sees the light and in the manner of true American puritan zeal takes it upon himself or herself to tell everybody whether we care to hear about it or not hundreds if not thousands of books are written by all these so-called new age thinkers the surprisingly consumable notions of the Zen Buddhist industry they simulate a posture of thinking subscribing as they do to the pragmatist ideology of “less words and more action” – he gesticulates making quotation signs in the air - where such non-conceptual vagaries represent un-freedom as opposed to say . . . I mean limiting one’s mind to ideas open and available at the historical moment of its experience which would be an element of freedom these notions they throw about that theirs is a philosophy of doing and not just thinking or reading are nothing more than moronic! – he shouts again getting more and more agitated – a kind of corny exoticism meant to console comfort us in the midst of a brutally oppressive society that exploits us and everything else mercilessly! of course of course I’m an absolute idiot too for having taken the time to read all that unbearable drivel! – he shouts again shaking his head – it’s yet another kind of entertainment with which we privileged ones distract ourselves from our present situation keeping us from reflecting on ourselves and the real state of captivity we find ourselves in at this very moment even as I speak! I don’t mean to sound like a Marxist mind you but the fact is we are slaves to capital! – he suddenly shouts jumping out of his chair shaking his fist at the air in front of him then collapsing back into his chair coughing – now would you please tell me how are reading thinking writing and speaking not kinds of action? how are they not kinds of so-called actual action? how are they not kinds of doing? – he inquires mockingly – of course! reading thinking writing and speaking are always already kinds of so-called actual action and not something separate from the body! some kind of disembodied abstract event! – he sneers - it seems to me that this view where thinking reading writing and speaking are separated from what they like to call actual action is evidence of a kind of dualistic view which is only possible if one still believes in the Cartesian division between mind and body a notion which of course has been proven to be false a false dichotomy long ago debunked by so-called western philosophers what’s more – he continues in a hectic tone of voice - the view where so-called leisurely activities such as thinking reading writing and speaking are thought of as non-activities as kinds of not doing this kind of thinking is closely related to the pragmatist ideology that thoroughly permeates I mean to say dominates our culture and which sees such activities as not practical that is to say not productive not useful in terms of capital’s interests and those of the production consumption machinery domination of course being one of capital’s prime interests – he says - underlying all this idiotic new age drivel are the ideologies of Puritanism Pragmatism and the Cartesian division between mind and body I tell you! of course all of society is deeply conditioned by this from left to right through the extreme center it’s absolutely hopeless – he whimpers - this also applies to the division those twits are always making between the real and the “non real” which is yet another instance of dualism which again I think stems directly from the Cartesian split between mind and body to the best of my knowledge the real reality is all there is there is no “outside” to reality no “beyond” reality there is unseen and unknown reality but not an outside to it to the best of our knowledge which admittedly is very limited there is no outside of the universe the multiverse as some call it now that being the case those “things” which are generally considered unreal such as thoughts fantasies dreams the imagination and its products are in reality they are an integral aspect of reality as a whole because they take place in our brains – the old man states emphatically - wha’ happens is reality includes the so-called non real in “itself” given that thinking intellection ratiocination imagination are all kinds of physical electro-chemical activities that the body does kinds of bodily functions the brain and its activities thinking dreaming reading and writing as I’ve already said are material processes and as such are an aspect of the body they are material processes that are an integral aspect of the universe why! – he exclaims again - it is through us through our eyes our ears our senses our thinking that the universe observes itself! experiences itself! thinks about itself! imagines itself! experiences itself as an individual as multiple! – he raises himself up from his creaking chair and paces about angrily staring at the littered floor -
they go on and on about how the self doesn’t exist! the idiots! if this is indeed the case who or what is that that says the self does not exist? who or what is that who thinks of saying such a thing and who or what is that that listens to and reflects upon the self does not exist? – he raises a hand with index finger pointing at the ceiling in a lecturing gesture – what’s more if the self does indeed not exist just what does it mean to speak of sentient beings of beings who are aware beings who are self aware - he turns toward me squinting – this is all idiocy of course . . . granted the word chair is not the thing it signifies and the map is not the territory but as representations of the things they point to they are real as systems of signification which we human beings have created with our imaginations which are just as real that is as material processes as electro-chemical activity – he says - as the flesh and blood brains that do the imagining and creating that the map is not the territory may be true but it takes place within the territory and as such is an aspect of said territory what’s more – he chuckles facetiously – the map itself is a kind of territory – he winks at me grinning – the map itself is nested in the territory it represents and as such it is part of the territory and as such it is an aspect of the territory and as such it very much is the territory that as a representation of the territory it is imperfect incomplete in its descrptions may be true but this does not mean it is not the territory it is the territory in as much as the map is nested in the territory it represents and therefore part of it an aspect of it in this case the representation and what it represents are very much interconnected entangled an entanglemeant if you will a meaningful tangle of events different aspects or sides of the same system if indeed we can call it that a system the map may be a stand-in for the territory it describes it is indeed standing in the territory it describes it is not separate from it nor are we nor is the one looking at the map separate from the territory no he or she is very much a part or rather an aspect of the same territory the map is a description of . . . that thinking and reading writing and speaking are kinds of action that may be limited and perhaps inadequate when it comes to apprehending ultimate reality so-called may very well be the case but they are not separate from that reality they are not outside that reality if by reality we mean life the universe and everything whatever one may wish to call it – he says with exasperation - but then again just what is matter? especially as I’ve already pointed out . . . I mean in light of what physicist have been saying for several decades now that matter is mostly empty space and that the distinction between matter and energy is very slim and that it is in a constant process of change a constant process of creation and re-creation a kind of turbulent activity in fact why matter is nothing but frozen light - the old man whispers vehemently and then remains silent for a while staring at the floor. I don’t dare move for fear of setting him off again hoping this will be my chance to escape – the role of stochastic self-organization is a liberating one – he suddenly starts up again in a hoarse whisper while staring out the window – just as nature is liberated from determinism by the stochastic leap toward the unprecedented so too it is with my sister’s paintings – he muses – in the afternoons one can hear feel what remains unseen all around at the edge of certain thoughtful uneventful cloud as the trees seem to make a little sense more precious than anything on earth – he says softly, turning and looking through me as if at a point in the distance – the sound of poetry seeps into the day the way watercolors bleed into each other blurring the line where one begins and the other ends . . . a line or two is lifted here and there from a random collection of poems printed on brittle rice paper with Japanese style prints of bamboo stalks and an occasional sparrow or crane perhaps a chrysanthemum water lilies and a gold and red colored bream seen barely below the surface of the water the words are chosen for their appearance and complexity of sound a ventriloquist whispers them in solitude like the wind again in the autumn the landscape longs for a light that is of its own making . . . one has a life one lives it more than this there is nothing why don’t they say so say so that is the meaning this present moment here and now is all there is it’s all we have I mean that’s the most important thing in life to me even if at a later date one finds oneself walking in a park seen in the film of a nightmare and all the sky and each brittle leaf has been thoroughly gone over and every hue has been accounted for now looking more and more like wallpaper than a dream . . . one jumps the gun of one’s own accord as if grasping at chords from an endless harp . . . the fields now etiolated wince and fold in retiring for the season . . . it is in these moments of solitude and desolation that one finds the truth some kind of truth despite the frightful noises in the brain and yet . . . and yet . . . as much as it is possible to be honest as much as it is possible for the human to be sincere now I know this much I am constantly being distracted from life from living by those dreadful noises in my brain . . . while still a professor I would lead my students through whatever topic we were discussing through my thought processes the dauntingly cumbersome logic of it all as if through my own darkness with eyes closed because of my thorough familiarity with it . . . I was constantly being distracted by the noises in my mind . . . our family doctor when he visits us only treats me for insomnia you know instead of what really ails me it is beyond him his meager comprehension what ails all of us in one way or another the poor man leaves as quickly as he can if you could only see the expression on his face! like yourself he is terrified of me! – the professor cackles and coughs - why all the troubles we see around us in the world at large come from within us nobody can say for sure why all these things continue to happen to us you see but it is certain that the conflict between our reasoning our thinking our imaginations and reality is the source of most of our misfortunes this rift between how we imagine things should be and how they really are is the cause of all our maladies this is evidence of just how pathetically naïve we are against the universe we don’t stand a chance to be sure this is the darkest night . . . once you immerse yourself in the gloom you may find that it has a luminosity all its own a kind of dark light if you will . . . just as all of a sudden I found myself incapable of leaving this house so too I became invisible to those who once knew me my relatives my colleagues and friends suddenly for them I was no longer there I had ceased to exist they were of course always too willing to indulge themselves in this kind of thinking this kind of simplistic naïve thinking whereby everything is divided into light and dark good and evil the sacred and the profane order and disorder and so on the whole tedious mess! not even a chance of a doubt appearing in anything they said anything they thought if one can call it thinking for them the world life seemed concluded finished a closed book as they say whereas for me life the so-called world and myself always seem incomplete always starting anew in an ebullient state as if it were always beginning again each moment I could never relate to this conclusive state of being of theirs one might as well be deceased! with the exception of my sister I may as well never see anyone again it’s just as well this has always been the source of my aloofness but my aloofness originates in them not in me it is they who have forced me into being aloof
what ails me ails you and everyone else the difference is that I am no longer capable of concealing it but rest assured what ails me just as well ails you and everyone else I’m no longer capable of denying it that’s all I am the ailment we are the ailment – he says smirking smugly - it seems only natural that the world destroy itself that the so-called world is destructive or is it that nature is in a continuous process of destruction? – he asks whispering loudly - a destruction of which we are the unwitting instruments it seems there is something that rules over us about which we have little or no control whatsoever you see
* * *
one has nothing except this black silence sometimes I think there’s a way out there there’s a way out somewhere but soon I’m overwhelmed by thoughts and emotions weighed down drowned in a flood of thoughts and emotions – the old man says wheezing again - a panic as I see there’s no escape I only think I think but it is not me who thinks it is not the me that does the thinking something else does the thinking it is language it is the writing perhaps a kind of parasite it is this other process from which thoughts and feelings arise which the I vainly believes belongs to it are of its own making the I is a small temporary vessel thrown about on an endlessly flowing river of changing forms this is our life this ever changing continuum to become attached to anything even this the idea of non-attachment makes no sense our refusal to accept this fact is at the root of all our troubles you see this beginningless river is more real than you and me – he says sighing – we’re only temporary configurations brought about by conditions that are themselves in a constant process of change it is hopeless to try and grasp anything ourselves or anything else we are condemned to lose ourselves sooner or later more so as soon as we try to crystallize ourselves into a kind of freeze dried existence the only thing we can be certain of is change the only thing we can expect is the unexpected an idea that seemed good yesterday an idea that seemed to be a stroke of genius yesterday today seems completely mediocre lifeless seems like shit – he spits out - even so despite these changes for most of us life is tedious most of our lives are utterly boring we are utterly bored with ourselves with our lives numbingly bored with each other if there is a hell it must be this life of ours in which we are condemned to listen to each other’s voices each other’s points of view we are condemned to listen to each other’s incessant whining what forced me into hiding is the incessant whining within and without the ongoing complaints the ongoing aches and pains this labyrinth of faces one is forced to face day in and day out until one dies and then who knows what happens? depending upon how well we have endured our present punishment how well we have dealt with it how well we have learned to deal with it with patient acceptance for it is always about this acceptance we must accept our punishment deserved or not just or not we must learn to love what has been crammed down our throats forced into our minds it is this constant exposure to the terror the horror the horror story is this our minds our current reality this is the true terror our so-called everyday life having to face each other everyday the incessant boredom and the sordid tedious violence that is forced upon us on a daily basis this is the horror story all those idiotic so-called horror novels and films that people consume so voraciously are trivial compared to the horror of our everyday lives it is this constant exposure to terror to the terror of existence that makes us brutal we are brutalized by existence therefore we ourselves are brutal the searing harshness of our existence our longings to be free to awaken foiled over and over again by the ongoing rushing flow of changing events while we cluster ourselves here and there on whatever island whatever promontory of temporary stasis whether natural or fabricated as we struggle to awaken from this nightmare among so much death what choice do we have? we are nothing but necrophiliacs consumers of death
this I see hear when I’m writing the words themselves broken their sounds their images fragments of materials adrift like flotsam debris from a wreckage in the onrushing current of circumstances that is our existence the writing itself the drifting words a kind of mapping of catastrophe bumping into each other searching each other’s jagged edges like chunks of ice floating refuse drifting down river toward the falls like flotsam jagged white grayish shapes puzzle-like slowly swirling round and round caught in a whirlpool like jetsam near the river’s edge where the bend begins blindly searching each other’s edges shapes erratically bumping into each other never quite fitting in
some jetsam to forget
me knots as ever present in this content
foiled me messy
a ripple of pink tinged with
forest green rustling in
Pronunciation Key (fltsm) n.
1. a. Wreckage or cargo that remains afloat after a ship has sunk.
b. Floating refuse or debris.
2. Discarded odds and ends.
3. Vagrant, usually destitute people.
Pronunciation Key (jtsm) n.
1. Cargo or equipment thrown overboard to lighten a ship in distress.
2. Discarded cargo or equipment found washed ashore. See Usage Note at flotsam.
3. Discarded odds and ends
washed shh- d
after oh- r
destitute a rrr- eh- ku- found
to lighten juh
oh- found floating refuse
washed ashore mm- ay- a wreckage mm- ay-
after odds afloat after
odds and ends sss
dih- usually destitute
k- found floating
d- eh- d
overboard sh- washed ashore odds afloat after
oh- in distress a wreckage or what remains ah- people dss
rrr after discarded odds afloat after debris
fff- floating refuse ou- debris discarded vagrant usually a- cargo fff- ull-
thrown nn- discarded duh destitute thrown overboard cargo refuse oh-vv- usually ay- destitute found floating refuse and ends t people ll- and ends
people gr- after ah- sunk nn- to lighten a ship in distress after I- usually t-
wreckage t cargo and equipment washed ashore eh- destitute nn afloat
d- eh- ss- found floating in distress overboard you- washed je-
tih- too- vagrant, usually destitute people afloat oo-
t ss- after a ship has sunk, floating refuse or ah- equipment ll-
uh- floating refuse or nn- debris, discarded odds and ends ee
k usually destitute d- refuse or eh- refuse or brr- found floating ee
th- eh- destitute nn afloat d- wah-
washed shh- d
after oh- r
destitute a rrr- eh- ku- found
to lighten juh
oh- found floating refuse
eh- ss- in distress overboard
you- washed je-
tih- in distress too- vagrant, people afloat oo-
t debris, discarded ss- after a ship has sunk, ah- equipment ll-
uh- nn- odds and ends ee
rr- oh- oo-
nn fff- floating refuse ou- discarded vagrant
a- cargo fff- ull-
thrown nn- discarded duh destitute oh-
vv- usually ay- destitute found floating t people ll- and ends
people gr- after ah- sunk nn- to lighten I- usually t-
wreckage t cargo a eh- destitute nn afloat
washed ashore mm- ay- a wreckage mm- ay-
after odds afloat after
odds and ends sss
dih- usually destitute
k- found floating
d- eh- d
eh- in distress you- washed je-
vagrant, usually destitute people afloat oo-
t after a ship ss- has sunk ah- equipment ll-
uh- nn- debris, discarded ee
odds and ends
k remains t
odds ee- washed ashore mm- ay- a wreckage mm- ay-
after odds afloat after
odds and ends sss
dih- usually destitute
sss- keh- found floating
- outside the window I see dark, heavy clouds lying low in the sky, impenetrable, the trees tremble almost imperceptibly as a light breeze wanders through them carrying a fine drizzle in the dull, late afternoon light, the garden is suddenly imbued with an unforeseen clarity, I can see the cracks, fissures and grooves in the trees’ moist black bark, the veins in the partched, translucent bright yellow of the few leaves that still linger on the branches, the varied lines and shapes criss-crossing each other in the etiolated, unkept grasses and weeds, a plastic bag, an empty bottle, garbage randomly scattered about the grounds, each thing seeming to have a light of its own, giving the entire area a serene sense of place in the present moment -
not knowing why I raise myself up – the professor suddenly says in a quiet, gruff voice - my body my mind my thoughts and feelings I who am a car . . . a car . . . a carcajando me like carne nigra gran ganando gangrenous carcass amid a mist mu . . . mue . . . muerto mujer rota morta est amidst a buca rest with fallen teeth out off rotting gums and tongue’s unrest deceased by disease by disease deceased so I raise myself up off the bed and sitting on the edge gaze out the window at the trees outside at the branches intertwined crisscrossing each other forming complex shapes and textures this is what I see see as an example of what to do where to go not only what to write but how to write their lonely lovely brightly colored autumnal leaves seeming to have a light of their own they have a light of their own the luminous bushes and the colors of the fallen leaves replicating themselves spinning in my room like the leaves outside turning in the wind in my head this of course is an allusion but we are tired I can no longer go on like this all thoughts all words are excremental – he whispers gently with eyes closed sniffing the air - what we tried to get at with words for years now centuries is it meaning in the commotion of its gleaming or yet another voice in a turbulent night of dreaming? motions of something reading itself reading itself was something in motion with a voice for propulsion rather agitated antiquated yet still effective looking for a purpose ‘neath the sun’s glaring stare bare of all intent one notion will suffice to organize a life and project it into unusual but viable forms so that they become a luminous backdrop to ever-repeated gestures do you know any Ashbery? – he asks looking up at me - Ashbery and Stevens are my favorite poets but then there’s Artaud who destroys all that . . . but . . . as I may have already said writing can be a demonic endeavor . . . writing is primarily a kind of activity I mean to say a kind of physical activity which is to say a kind of bodily function as is thinking an excretion if you will all writing is excremental the brain’s electricity bleeding into the surrounding atmosphere only through this destructiveness can one speak freely you see it is only through this disintegration this ongoing destruction that one can think and speak freely alienation becomes the singularity that allows for total freedom
but no! – he suddenly blurts out – I must tell you! show you something! the machine I’ve been working on for years! no one has seen it what it can do! with the exception of my sister of course but you’d be the first! you must see it! what it can do my writing machine! perhaps you can try it yourself! – he exclaims again this time giggling nervously – it has something in common with Raymond Roussel’s writing machine but of course with today’s technology . . . – he trails off then continues energetically - actually it differs greatly in that with my machine I can work directly with the brain’s waves the machine opened up territories in me I didn’t know existed the dreams I have are extraordinary unprecedented I see landscapes that can only belong to other worlds I mean to say those territories are in me but the me no longer is that is to say I become an otherness it seems . . . come I will show you! – he suddenly gestures at me with his cigarette hand while at the same time jumping out of his chair with the spontaneous agility of a child and walks toward the studio door the threshold of which he crosses instantly with an effortless skip, he then turns his head toward me and gesturing again, disappears into the darkness of the hallway laughing. I remain still for a few seconds until I hear him shout - come on! – I hear his voice as if from a long distance away. Sluggishly, I begin to move toward the door that also seems far away, impossible to reach, as if I were stuck in a kind of dreamlike Zeno’s paradox; the distance between myself and the door, though only a few meters, never seeming to end. Finally, as I’m approaching the studio door, a sinewy hand suddenly pops out of the darkness and gripping my forearm with surprising force drags me into the hallway. With lead feet and wobbly legs, I stumble behind the professor who, cackling maniacally, pulls me along by the sleeve. I see a light pouring from an open door at the end of the hall - voilå! - the old man exclaims gesturing with widespread arms – this is our laboratory! our playground! – he squeals - this is where my sister and I conduct our experiments with language and perception with brain waves and sound manipulating our brain waves with negative feedback – he says smiling at me with glee as he stands sideways in the doorway with one hand on his hip, the other, with cigarette between index and middle finger, palm facing upwards raised above his shoulder gesturing toward the interior of the room like a proud house wife. I enter into a windowless, rectangular room with a high ceiling filled with all kinds of electronic equipment, old and new. The room reminds me of an old analogue electronic music studio. The dust-covered walls are painted in a faded institutional gray-green color. Against the opposite wall, along the length of the room, are two long worktables, and on the wall above them are shelves stacked with books and papers. On the tables stand four large LCD computer monitors. Below the tables, resting on wooden pallets on the dusty wooden floor, among stacks of books and papers, cables and power strips, sit four state of the art computer towers linked to each other, seemingly working in tandem. Against the rear wall stands a table with a large multichannel sound mixer and a tall equipment rack that includes a patch bay full of connecting cables. There are also several synthesizers; an old Arp 2600 and an even older Moog synthesizer complete with all its modules, patch cables arching and dangling from their dark surfaces. I also see old multichannel tape recorders, oscilloscopes and filters, and an old ring modulator and harmonizer stacked upon each other in the rear corners of the room along with the latest multichannel digital recorders, oscilloscopes and filters, and an old ring modulator and harmonizer stacked upon each other in the rear corners of the room along with the latest model digital signal processor and other equipment which reminds me somewhat of medical equipment one sees in hospitals. Among them, I recognize an electro-encephalogram machine that seems to be connected to the synthesizers via some kind of interface unit. In the middle of the room I see what appears to be a reclining dentist chair at the head of which rests a kind of helmet with a mass of thin, multicolored wires emanating from its surface. The wires cascade behind the chair toward the floor in a swooping curve and then, a few meters later, ascend coming together into a large horizontal connector plugged into a console in the equipment rack in the back of the room. The rest of the room’s walls are covered with paintings of unfamiliar landscapes and objects, presumably the work of the professor’s sister. Charts of various sorts, as well as scraps of paper with notes and odd symbols scribbled on them in ink or pencil are tacked or stuck with scotch tape onto some of the paintings and whatever spaces are left available on the walls. The professor suddenly halts and speaks up with a wheezing voice - as stated in his “Journey to the Taraumara” according to Artaud and also certain phenomenologists all of reality is a kind of language all of reality speaks all of reality is an intricate web of signs signs and languages that speak about us and our predicament signs which forever point to each other in an infinite web of relationships all of reality a veritable morass of languages crisscrossing interrupting and dialoguing with each other in an interminable tangle an entanglemeant in fact – he states emphatically – a meaningful tangle of events a polysemous tangle of
meanings all of life the entire universe in fact is a koan as Dogen Kigen the thirteenth century Japanese Buddhist monk would have it a web of languages most of which remain and shall remain unintelligible to us – he says wheezing softly – we are lost in a maze an interminable eternal maze from which there is no escape except for those few whose actions are lacking in self-interest – he says grimacing –
. . . my sister’s digital art work and her scanned paintings . . . I mean thanks to an algorithm I wrote which permits us to take the digital information from her works her scanned paintings and her digital art works by means of a kind of mapping that is to say we take the values from the digital and scanned works and map them unto the brain’s waveforms I mean to say the computer translates the information from the visual imagery into wave forms that by means of reverse feed-back are fed directly into my brain but first of course – he grumbles - my mind must be made blank the original brain waves must be as it were erased in order to do this one must use phase cancellation this is produced by the sum of two waves of the same frequency and amplitude that are out of phase with each other the end result is a wave that has less overall amplitude than both original waves in other words modeled after an electroencephalogram of my brain the computer generates a new set of brain waves just like mine in frequency and amplitude the only difference is that they differ in phase it then feeds them back into my brain thus adding them on to the ones my brain is already producing so creating the desired effect of phase cancellation – he grins briefly - in this manner the brain is made considerably more quiet more receptive than it normally is with its usual internal noises monologues and other mechanisms by which the mind defends itself against reality the eternal silence once this is achieved little by little the computer begins to feed the brain the new values the new information taken from my sister’s digital and scanned works and this information begins to alter the comportment of the brain’s waves by changing the values of their parameters to match those of the art works that is to say their frequency and amplitude values as well as their density the brain begins to function in frequency and amplitude ranges unknown this of course will alter the brain’s chemistry and most certainly at the molecular level its structure producing highly unusual states of perception of consciousness quite literally one comes into contact with landscapes with views sounds textures and colors one has never encountered before
of course this is quite a dangerous endeavor all manner of things can go wrong one could conceivably end up brain dead or the brain begin to produce a jumble of waveforms the brain would become infinitely more noisy than what it already is one wouldn’t be able to function one would go mad to be sure or collapse in the throes of endless seizures the brain being caught up in a chaotic cascading feed-back loop – he says whispering cautiously - but perhaps the most dangerous thing would be to be hacked while in the midst of the computer induced hypnogogic trance necessary to undergo the feed-back process hacked by some exterior some unknown source someone hacking into our computers could cause all manner of havoc this person this entity – he says suddenly coughing agitated – could change the information going from the computer into the brain this person this being I mean to say the hacker could alter the values the information taken from my sister’s works transferred into the computers and from the computers into the brain this person or whatever could very well reconfigure one’s brain as he or she or maybe it sees fit this person this creature could in fact edit the contents of one’s brain of one’s mind and therefore one’s thoughts one’s perceptions would be completely transfigured such a person such a being such a creature would have complete control over one’s mind over one’s body over one’s body and mind - he says fidgeting and looking around nervously - complete access to one’s thoughts and feelings one’s dreams such an entity would have access to the deepest recesses of one’s mind knowing things about myself that not even I know it would thus be able to manipulate me with impunity without my knowing anything about it while you normally think of yourself as being in charge of your thoughts and actions your dreams and feelings your desires your physical motions in reality there is someone or some thing who is controlling them making all those decisions for you – he says – no longer belonging to yourself you’d find if you’re aware that you are completely lost in a veritable forest of dreams a labyrinth of mirages from which you can’t awake set adrift in an ever changing reality controlled and defined in fact created by that unknown other to which you now belong – he whispers slowly and softly - of course one night it did indeed happen we were hacked by an unknown source an unknown force hijacked our system and began changing things around . . . from the someone hacked into the something system jacked into it into me and started changing things around and round slowly swirling perpetual system dismantling perceptions in re-creation breaking down matter down to its smallest elements – he says with agitation - one night my sister and I were here in the computer lab working we had been working for hours we were working on transferring data of the various parameters of her visual works the colors the textures the shapes the lines and intersections the various patterns from some of her paintings from some of what she calls her oneiric landscapes transferring that data into our computers and applying it to the parameters of sound that is to say mapping all that visual data to frequency amplitude rhythm timbre and spectral information in other words taking all that data and turning it into potential musical information the values from the data we then plugged into the patches I wrote in SuperCollider 3 the various instruments I had created using the SuperCollider 3 program which would take all that information and manipulate and transform it into different kinds of waveforms sound structures of varying textural densities timbres frequencies and amplitudes using different types of envelope generators to produce different kinds of attacks and durations using random number generators that is to say noise generators to control the values of the various parameters in each instrument so as to add unpredictability needless to say the complexity and variety produced was enormous one of my favorite patches is the FM synthesis patch with multiple carriers and modulators which produces an incredible variety of timbres attacks and textures it’s various parameters it’s envelope generators also controlled by random number generators so as to produce as unpredictable a number and types of attacks and durations for each event as is possible I applied various sound prosessing techniques with the instruments I wrote in SC3 such as different types of filtering FFTs for spectral processesing various types of granulation aliasing the afore mentioned FM synthesis all of whose parameters were controlled by random number generators the brain being the greatest random number generator of all! – he suddenly squeals with excitement - all of these instruments and processesors I put in a kind of list we call an Array and this Array I nested inside a Routine which is a virtual object that generates events at given times these times too were controlled randomly – he says wheezing - all of this produced an effect of great variety and unpredictability textures would change in surprising ways all kinds of unheard of tone colors durations and articulations creating a sound scape that unfolded and developed in a virtually infinite number of ways a sound scape into which we would go exploring in a state of complete wonderment – he says with excitement, smiling with pleasure revealing his stained, rotting teeth – yet one night one night something happened something terrible something truly horrific – he says barely whispering in a trembling voice – a door was opened somehow somewhere we don’t know how a door was thrown open perhaps in my mind my mind as conduit a doorway into a world of an infinite variety of languages words and voices bumping into each other in a haphazard manner snaking around each other in a frenzy – he says barely audible – as I was sitting in our modified dentist’s chair wearing the headset you see there with all the electrodes and wires coming out of it deeply plunged into a completely relaxed and open hypnagogic state our computers all of a sudden began to act erratically my sister who was sitting at the monitors lost control of the machines as they began to scroll data up and down the screens with maniacal speed I began to hear at first a faint humming sound like the metallic humming of insects insect mandibules clicking and clacking obsessively insect wings in the distance humming maniacally then growing louder and louder and among the humming sounds I also began to hear what seemed like voices metallic insect-like voices laced with occasional bands of staticky noise nervously chattering mandibules and sharp fidgety claws clickety clacketing and in the midst of the images I was receiving from the computers of my sister’s intra-psychic landscapes there began to appear pitch black angular shapes heads with angular pointy ears on wide angular shoulders from which issued black pointy bat-like wings with sharp claws at their ends but somehow these were flat two dimensional shapes gliding without effort among the images of the varied tissue-like geological structures textures and colors of my sister’s landscapes as I looked more intently into my self into my mind I saw that the flat bat-like shapes where issueing from one central place one central point an annulus perhaps the very center of my mind gliding rapidly they began to form circles of flat sharp angular bat-like shapes turning clockwise and counterclockwise one circle within another suddenly reminding me of M.C. Escher’s woodcut “Circle Limit IV” with it’s concentric circles of black bats their humming mumbling chatter the electrical humming of their metallic mandibules chattering ringing in my ears and in my insides driving me mad tearing at the tissues of my mind tickling me in different areas of my body from the inside out from inside my body I began to wonder if he too Escher had encountered these creatures these dark angels that now swarmed in my insides the static of their electric thoughts buzzing in my ears mumbling mindlessly they began to nip and cut nibble bite and tear at my insides with their razor sharp angular shoulders and pointy ears they slashed and stabbed at my flesh from within first at my liver and spleen then with their razor sharp claws they tore at my kidneys my bladder and intestines scooping out my insides slashing at the connective tissues that keep the organs in place puncturing my lungs till they collapsed stabbing at my heart with their scorpion-like tails in the far distance I could hear a terrifying scream as if the sky was being ripped asunder as the scream got deafeningly closer I opened my eyes only to realize the scream was mine I saw my sister mouth agape staring at the wall in front of her paralyzed with fear I turned my eyes in the direction she was looking and saw a swarm of the shadow-like two-dimensional creatures swirling round the room they glided effortlessly along the walls ceiling and floor their point of origin seeming to be the vertices of the room’s corners – he says with agitation - instinctively I pulled off the electrode headset and jumping out of the chair ran as fast as I could to the equipment rack in the back of the room and immediately killed the master power switch to which all of the lab’s electronic equipment is connected the mayhem disappeared almost instantly – he says with a grimace – they exist in the electrical system you see in the flow of electrons it may very well be that another dimension another universe exists in the electrical system the flow of electric current the stream of particles of electrons opens up doorways into other worlds where these beings exist perhaps electricity itself is alive a kind of living process with a mind a consciousness of its own perhaps through the quantum processes that go on in our brains something like quantum entanglement ocurrs our brains our minds share the same particles with other beings in other dimensions enabling our minds to connect with theirs I must admit a frightening thought – he says whispering softly – it may very well be that these beings these entities have been my editors all along cutting and pasting rearranging my writings turning them into something I can’t recognize as my own . . .
 The highness or lowness of a sound which is measured in Hertz or cycles per second (CPS).
 The loudness (or volume) of a sound which is a function of how much energy a sound has.
 The frequency and amplitude information in the attack of a sound which are determining factors in that sound’s timbre (or tone color) and which enable our ears to identify the source of sounds and, distinguish one sound from another, e.g., the sound of a violin from that of a flute.
 In Electronic and computer music, a patch is a constellation or system of generators and processors (also known as Unit Generators or UG) which are connected to each other and which generate and process signals. There are different types of generators and processors. For example, a White Noise generador generates a kind of noise called White Noise. A High Pass Filter is a type of signal processor which allows through only high frequencies from a signal. If we were to connect the White Noise generador to the High Pass Filter, we would only hear the higher frequencies of the White Noise.
 SuperCollider 3 is an object-oriented programing language for sound synthesis and digital signal processing originally created by James McCartney in 1996. In 2002, when he joined the Apple Core Audio Team, he released SC under the terms of the GNU General Public License. SC3 is now developed and maintained by an active and enthusiastic community. It can be downloaded for free at http://supercollider.sourceforge.net.
 i.e., patches.
 A kind of Unit Generator that controls a signal’s attack, sustain, amplitude and duration.
 Frequency Modulation syntesis is an electronic music technique where the timbre of a waveform (the carrier) is changed by modulating its frequency with the frequency of another waveform (the modulator) that is also in the audio range. The result is a more complex waveform with a different timbre. There can be multiple Carriers and modulators which make for even more complex timbres and sound textures.
 Fast Fourier Transform is a technique used in computer music to analyze the frequency content of a sound’s spectra. Complex waveforms can be deconstructed into combinations of simple waves of different amplitudes, frequencies and phases.
 Granulation or Granulation Synthesis is a technique used in computer music in which an electronically generated sound or a sound file is broken up into very small fragments called grains. These grains can be used as building blocks for larger sound objects as when they are scattered to form cloud-like structures or organizad into streams.
 In digital signal processing, aliasing (also known as foldover) is a kind of distortion that occurs when the sampling rate of a sound is more than one-half of the sampling rate. Half of the sampling rate is called the Nyquist frequency. So, if we have a sampling rate of 20,000 Hz (where the Nyquist frequency is 10,000 Hz) and we are trying to sample a sound that has a frequency of 12,000Hz (2000Hz higher than the Nyquist frequency) we will get foldover or aliasing with a resulting sound that has a frequency of 8000 Hz. Aliasing can produce some interesting sound artifacts.
it was the editors I’m sure – he says gasping for air - and if it wasn’t them then it was . . . just as they rearranged my insides my organs they started to change things around change my brain waves put thoughts language voices in my head I didn’t have there before I didn’t want there they put writing in my head on my pages I didn’t want never meant to be . . .
it was the editors – he mutters cautiously - I’m sure who nearly killed me they might as well have just as they scooped all my organs out they took my works away from me they took my words away from me my writings my excretions they obviously wanted me dead dead in life a kind of living death is what they had in store for me keeping me half alive this is the torment they’ve had in store for me all along they scrambled my brains my thoughts so that I could not have a single clear thought or insight anymore I could never love anything I wrote after they finished with me my body my mind after they finished with it my writings completely destroyed – he says with desperation - they destroyed the original intention the original vision under the pretext of producing something they said the public wants to read as if anyone knows what the public wants or even if the public reads at all or if the public even exists for that matter! they destroyed the structure of my works in most cases it is the structure that says everything just as much if not more than the words themselves I mean to say the internal relationships between the sections and subsections of the work as well as the relationship between each of the works themselves they completely erased the experimental exploratory nature of my works turning them into the opposite turning them into the conformist complacent kind of literature one finds everywhere I could never love any of my books after that I could never consider them mine anymore they merely had my name on them but it wasn’t me who wrote those books not after they finished with them they changed everything in them in my books they altered everything after they completely rearranged them beyond recognition I could never see them read them again consider them as mine consider them mine they claimed the main idea was still there in the books that it was the best part of the books this they said patronizing me as if I couldn’t see what they had done but of course the main idea was the experimental nature of the works which they discarded completely they claimed the main idea as theirs which they completely changed into the usual drab linear narrative thus erasing it the main idea so-called of course there was more than one main idea as they called it they were complex you couldn’t reduce them down to just one idea it was censorship plain and simple it was politically ideologically motivated without a doubt the philistines wanted narrative they wanted narrative stories they said the public wanted something they are familiar with something they knew they said the public liked that that they like what they know and that they didn’t want any changes made they said the public knows what it likes and it likes what it knows it likes what it knows and it knows what it likes tight little circle this pretty as the truth tied at both ends – the old man says bitingly - they said they didn’t want this little circle this vicious little circle of theirs this nasty little limit cycle of theirs broken this was not the time to inject new information into it they said the public doesn’t want its little habits changed its reading and thinking habits the public’s perceptual habits should not be changed should not be challenged in any way – the old man says annoyed - this is what they said that the time was not ripe for change but of course it never is! – he gestures angrily - of course by doing this by re-interpreting my writings in their own image and releasing them to the public as mine the so-called public of which I know nothing and for which I have nothing but contempt they the editors were preparing the way for my suicide I am discarded I am discharged like so much refuse a vagrant so much jetsam
the I is discarded this whole story was is about the destruction of the self this gradual process of degradation a long process of erosion that takes years and which got me to where I am now living in the rubble of what was once myself – he mutters slowly with trembling voice holding on to what’s left of his cigarette with a shaky hand, his knees too tremble, his entire body shudders with dread like an animal in a slaughterhouse sensing the nearness of its time – they took me away from myself you see – he whimpers - they made sure my voice had been made ineffective I had never even met them this Mr. Q and this Ms. Z my editors I never met them in the flesh face to face I don’t even know if they exist I called the publishers enquiring after them but they were always out they worked from their homes I was told and were not to be bothered as they were now involved in an enormous translation project and had no time for me and my petty problems so I was told of course by changing my writings my language they were changing my thinking by changing the structure of my writings they were changing my insides by re-arranging the structure of my writings they were re-arranging my insides by changing my language they were also changing my perceptions pushing me ever closer to madness it was becoming necessary that I change things back to the way they were originally I needed to protect myself – he says with increasing desperation – I found it necessary to re-write everything I had written until then until now everything that had been published in my name in an attempt to repossess my work my legacy rescue it from these horrendous misrepresentations of course in order to do that I had to misrepresent the published works again misquote and plagiarize the books and writings that had been published in my name this was a kind of ritual for purifying myself a self purifying ritual I mean to say
certain rites are necessary to purify and protect the space around oneself in which one works you see this is an absolute necessity of course it was this obsession with the main themes in my works that of the destruction of the individual of the self and that of how language can re-shape redefine reality and the self how it can influence and change our perception of reality and therefore how it language can re-define and change us as individuals the map may not be the territory but it is most definitely part of it and what’s more the map itself is a kind of territory – he emphasizes vehemently wheezing – it was these two recurrent themes that brought me to the place where I find myself today my self demolished a veritable collection of rubble unable to find the energy the peace of mind with which to collect myself pick up the pieces literally – he says while sighing – it was these two recurrent themes in my work one: the destruction of the individual and two: language as a determining factor in how we think and perceive reality its hallucinogenic properties and its role as a determining factor in the construction of identity and therefore the individual these two themes that ironically have led to my destruction – he slumps back down into his chair exhausted breathing again with difficulty - if only I could tell someone about this if only I could tell people about this but nowadays no one talks to anybody no one listens to anybody there are all these barriers everywhere you go everywhere you look there are barriers walls and moats trenches and barbed wire fences endless divisors and mazes erected first in our minds then all around us in the so-called world outside as excretions of our insides of course I talk to all kinds of people people of all ages you see I mean to say if I could talk if I could go outside leave this house if I could walk I would speak to anybody a child an old person a teenager a young adult a student I could speak to anyone if I could speak if I could walk their age their station would be irrelevant we’ve all been there at some point in our lives as youngsters or will soon be there when we get older all these barriers we have erected and maintain in ourselves and around each other why do we go on like this? – he enquires barely audible as he stares vacantly at the wall in front of him – I look to the sky the night sky and no longer see the stars it has been years since I’ve seen stars in this city of gray gray skies gray walls and gray foggy nights there are no stars to be seen anywhere the world is a progressive dimming of light it is only the incomprehensible that has any conviction . . .
liking disliking what does any of that mean? – he says pensively drifting off into silence - hob knobbing with hobgoblins! – he suddenly cries out - I care not for extracting more than utter gloom from this our human landscape of inconceivable devastation! to ward off the contingent toward warding off the contained offerings con . . . con . . . contaminated! as I’ve already said this is what we struggle with throughout our lives – he mutters softly almost sobbing - those scenes lifted from real life so-called the storm reasserts itself unable to let go yet at the same time unable to hold on all of the arts all such endeavors are dead pointless – he says softly with mild derision – have been for quite some time now as well they should be for they are expressions of a time long gone it is the silence we must now face together only one moment of silence and darkness brings us all together unites us all in a single terrifying realization that of our bare naked existence – he mutters distractedly staring at the floor as the lights in the room suddenly flicker - all of the twentieth century with its various schools its various movements its avant-gardes with its aspirations to revolution and changing the world all of the twentieth century with its sacrificial heroic movements was nothing more than an extension of Romanticism and the acknowledgement of the latter’s failure to achieve its goals we flail haplessly in our self made prisons helplessly unable to face the hopelessness of hoping of course to exist is to exert conditioning power on the world it’s a two way street why doesn’t anybody see this? – he asks almost squealing -
killing life killing the world with our thoughts they force me to repeat myself you see they take me away from myself from my body they make me choke on mine own words subject to a naïve a simplistic conception of matter we turn life into so much inert material over analyzing everything to death into death with our deadly beliefs we turn the entire world into one large necrotic mass one gigantic heap of corpses the new born come into this world among so much death the muck of putrefaction why! ones semen is black necrotic! in the end only kindness mutters to itself – he chuckles softly – what more is left us the tedious mendacious lot but to destroy ourselves and each other and everything else we hate everything anything anyone that makes us feel lesser inferior inadequate and life the universe makes us feel very small insignificant we can’t stand it we can’t take it we are incapable of accepting it you see and we can’t change it control it nor can we destroy it but out of spite then we will destroy one of its creations ourselves! ourselves and this world our planet and everything in it poisoning everything to death! the life of the intellectual is a dry meaningless lonely life after all this time aah aaah I’ve arrived at this realization only to see that all my accomplishments are vain and empty and that reality is so much more than I in my arrogant myopic view had envisioned reality is so much more complex and magical than we can grasp with our words our thoughts the most astute verbal descriptions and constructions the most clever forms of thinking don’t come close to grasping what’s happening all around us and in ourselves and what we do to the world subject as we are have been for centuries to a naïve simplistic conception of matter of materialism turning life into so much inert matter over analyzing everything to death into death I should say it is into death that we analyze everything killing life killing the world with our thoughts of course they are all fighting each other all the time killing each other in the most insidious ways in an attempt to consolidate their turf what they see as their turf their territory in an attempt to establish superiority intellectuals and artists writers poets and composers everywhere fighting each other fighting each other over bits of scrap thrown at them by the philistines the business class they fight each other over beauty what they think is beautiful beauty and truth wanting to be the first the only ones who express the truth wanting to be right always right wanting to be the only direct conduit the only messengers of the Gods of the truth and therefore establish their superiority over everyone else all along blind to the fact that all the fighting and its ensuing nastiness is the only truth and it isn’t a beautiful one quite the contrary it’s very ugly it has the ugliness of ego of selfishness behind it motivating it it is the same nastiness behind all the wars all the ugliness and suffering we humans are capable of and have seen throughout the hundreds the thousands of years of our sordid history wanting to feel superior all this born out of a sense of disdain for the human the mortal the body and its imperfections our fear of what’s inevitable our fear of death and decay our fear of life - he suddenly looks at me grinning and swivels around playfully in his chair tapping his feet on the dusty floor displacing dust balls and cigarette butts - those there are who think me negative – he says derisively – negative positive what’s it all mean? more dualism more fragmentation which is at the root of all our problems – he snickers - just think of this all those wonderful people – he says again mockingly – all those artists and scientist those teachers and composers with all their wonderful works their contributions to history to culture to knowledge to so-called humanity – he emphasizes snidely – not to mention all those wonderful positive human beings who shall remain forever anonymous those loving mothers and fathers who had nothing but kindness to give their children all those teachers who had nothing but support to offer their students all those wonderful anonymous people with all their positive thinking their optimism and perseverance their love for humanity none of that managed to prevent to stop the First World War the massacre of one million Armenians at the hands of the Turks the horrendous exploitation of the Congolese by the Belgian the extermination of the indigenous peoples of the Americas the death camps and all the other horrors of the Second World War the Vietnam War the rise of all manner of brutal totalitarianisms global Capitalism being the latest incarnation the ongoing conquest and destruction of the natural world this sort of thing this rage against life against ourselves and each other this has been going on for hundreds thousands of years this destructive movement evolving throughout time becoming more and more devastating like a growing wave a tsunami an avalanche
this is our legacy this is what will endure like the old Nazi bunkers by the North Sea which the Dutch couldn’t tear down after the war so well constructed they are monuments to our human nastiness this is what we do best we excel at constructing destruction – he says in a hoarse whisper - all that positive thinking all that love and optimism all that hope has proven useless in face of the destructive force that is humanity for we are a destructive force obviously just being positive and optimistic is not enough especially when such optimism entails denial closing off the so-called negative within ourselves not facing and dealing with it head on
obviously avoiding these things doesn’t make them go away all the deathly weariness of human existence as we have seen throughout the centuries quite the contrary it comes back with a vengeance
our country all of humanity in fact is shock shock and awe as the military strategic term goes a totality involving a ruthless and brain destroying recipe that corrodes one’s resolve to the core
in such a weakened state everyone including one’s closest family and friends turns on you they do everything they can to make you falter to undermine you drive you over the edge to suicide they have no interest in seeing who and what you really are only in so far as they can use you exploit you in some manner this is what they do to you they judge you label you brand you with an image they have concocted in their twisted minds and then treat you accordingly for the rest of your life in effect freezing you into a position into a collection of habits and behaviors from which you can’t break free and which serve as justification for the punishment the violence they enjoy inflicting on you – he says in a loud hoarse whisper - this destructiveness we see everywhere in our society in our world this unabashed hostility is especially directed at thinkers intellectuals and artists people who think and question people who create new ways of seeing listening thinking and feeling it is directed also at sensitives seers people of deep spirituality . . . this has been going on for centuries thousands of years in fact but in recent history it has taken an especially nasty turn with the rise of the industrial age and capitalism this in combination with anglo-saxon Protestantism and positivism – he says smirking again – anglo-saxon capitalist pragmatism in combination with positivism has completely enslaved our world has turned our world ourselves included – he says grimacing again – into so much raw material to be dissected and exploited with impunity . . . an environment a society that is itself obsessive fixated on denial it society obsesively looks away from the suffering it has caused and is actively involved in causing even now as we speak – he frowns and coughs, then continues – as I’ve already said by talking incessantly and walking around in circles I keep them at bay it is a kind of ritual dance an ancient ritual dance you see to scare away evil spirits I learned it from the Abipon an indigenous people of South America you know they lived in the lower Bermejo River area in the Gran Chaco of Argentina it is more effective if more people are involved forming a large circle walking around in circles chanting and talking sometimes shouting so as to generate a field of energy the spirits can’t penetrate . . . we are surrounded by them here our cities are crawling with them you know we attract them with our negative thoughts and violent ways they love our gossip our mendacity as do we you might say they feed on it . . . but if . . . as it is claimed . . . the Buddhists say in the Lankavatara Suttra that we create reality with our minds that we create objective reality with our minds and presumably that means with our brains . . . – he mutters desperately, aimlessly shuffling about mechanically on the floor – but no . . . no . . . – he stands still for a moment, cigarette in hand, staring vacantly at the wall in front of him, drool dangling from his lower lip and then he suddenly exclaims - what am I saying! here I go again talking my head off I meant to show you! I wanted to show you how this contraption of ours works! the very interesting results we get with it – he gets up and walks toward the equipment rack and flicks on the main power switch, all of the equipment lights up, he then sits at the computers and turns them on, the screens light up and he boots into the system and opens several applications and programs, SuperCollider 3.9 among them, the lights on the interface units blinking - I’m sure that as an artist yourself as a composer you will find these results to be very interesting – he says enthusiastically. In one of the screens I see images consisting of complex textures and shapes of varying colors and hues, they look like electron microscope images of different kinds of tissues. Some of the images also look like landscapes consisting of various geological terrains. The colors, shapes and textures seem to shift slowly as if they were alive, breathing. I assume these are examples of his sister’s visual art. On the other screen I see a window with code and another window for a DAW; the digital to analog interface unit that controls up to thirtytwo channels through which signals are routed. He gets up and asks me to sit at one of the screens and instructs me to click on three virtual buttons with the mouse cursor when he tells me to. He quickly walks over to the modified dentist’s chair and nimbly jumps into it, then, reaching above and behind him with his hands, he takes hold of the headset with the electrodes and fits it onto his head with ease. He then lays back into the chair and closes his eyes. Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, gently, he seems to sink into a deep state of relaxation. In a soft voice, he directs me to click the first button. I suddenly see on the SuperCollider oscilloscope window an image of several very low frequency sine waves. Their frequencies are so low I can’t hear any of them. I look over to the old man and see a gentle smile on his face. I assume this must be the phase cancellation process he had described earlier. I look at the old man again and he seems to be in a very deep sleep, his eyes appear to be moving behind his closed eyelids as it happens in REM sleep. About a minute later I’m startled by a very low and distant voice; a basso profundo coming from the professor, a voice I don’t recognize as his. The voice tells me to click on the next two buttons in sequence, which I do with a growing sense of unease. I look at the screens and see the images of his sister’s artwork becoming more active; their shapes, textures and colors mutating, changing over time into very different patterns and landscapes from where they had original begun. This seems to have activated the SuperCollider synthesis program that is now producing sounds of different frequencies, amplitudes, timbre and articulation; creating shifting textures of varying complexity that seem to correspond to the changing images of his sister’s art. The sounds are projected through an array of eight speakers the professor has distributed around the room creating a surround-sound effect that gives me the sensation of being immersed in a kind of environment, a kind of substance: a veritable roiling ocean of sounds and images. For several minutes I sit watching and listening enthralled, I look over at the professor and see that except for very shallow breathing, he is absolutely motionless. I turn my head back toward the computer screens and as I do I seem to hear a low frequency humming or churning sound. I move my head slightly to the left and then slightly to the right and I think I hear something like a low-pitched mumbling or chanting whose origin I can’t place. I get up from the chair and walk around the studio slowly moving my head in one direction and then the other trying to locate the source. I hear a sudden sound coming from the professor and see he is clutching frenetically at the armrests of the chair and shaking violently from head to toe. In a panic I leap back toward the desk realizing the old man never explained how to get him out of his trance should anything go wrong. I look at the computer monitors and see a dark figure dart across the screen where the artworks are. Another figure quickly glides past and then another. The ceiling and the desk lamps begin to flicker wildly. The monitor where the sound synthesis code was has now gone black and a stream of large, bright green symbols unknown to me stream up and down the screen in a kind of cascading motion. I look back at the professor and see he is now convulsing madly and foaming at the mouth. In the other monitor screen I see the dark, bat-like figures the professor had described earlier, arrayed in concentric circles turning in opposite directions from each other and I begin to hear too a kind of speech consisting of metallic-like clicking and electric buzzing sounds coming through the studio’s speakers. All of a sudden a terrifying scream rents the room like a lightning bolt and I see the professor sitting up straight in the chair, eyes and mouth wide open as he screams hysterically at the top of his lungs grasping at his head with both hands. Flinging his arms toward the ceiling he collapses onto the floor sobbing as the studio door violently swings open and Helena, the old man’s sister, rushes in – Allan! Allan! – she screams – what have you done! what have you done! – she screams again and running toward him falls to her knees putting her arms around him. Angular shadows are now cropping up from behind the work bench, the shelves and stacks of equipment, they glide effortlessly along the walls, ceiling and floor seeming to issue from the vertices of the room’s corners. In sheer terror, I pull myself together and lurch toward the study door and in one sudden move push myself through the threshold and sluggishly, as if in a dream, amble down the darkened hallway toward the glass paneled door and the foyer behind it awkwardly bumping into the paper clad walls in a daze. I reach the foyer door and clutching the handle fling it open in a fury. The door slams against the wall shattering several of the glass panels, the shards fall to the carpeted floor with a muffled clinking sound. In a frenzy I pull at the iron door guard rod and throw it to the side and frenetically begin fumbling with the many bolts, latches and locks the door is fitted with. Behind me I hear cries and screams issuing from the professor and his sister and behind them, the hypnotic chanting of the metallic, insect-like voices of the shadow creatures. Seconds seem to stretch into minutes and minutes into hours as I struggle with the door until finally, I undo the last latch and unlock the last lock and mustering all my strength pull the heavy metal door open and leap onto the steps that lead to the side walk outside. I turn around and in a fit of fear and anger, slam the door shut. I stand motionless still holding on to the door handle and listen. All I hear are the normal street sounds of a late fall afternoon; the occasional sound of traffic and passersby and a few sparrows squabbling over some crumbs of food on the sidewalk. Putting the hood of my coat over my head I turn north and begin walking at a fast pace up Noordeinde street into the late afternoon’s drizzle, past the queen’s working palace, heading out of the old Zeeheldenkwartier. I walk up to Mauritskade and the canal that runs along side it and cross over onto Zeestraat heading north toward Scheveningseweg. In a few minutes I reach the intersection of Javastraat and Scheveningseweg and veer slightly to the west onto the latter. In a few more minutes I’m walking past Carnegie Plain and the Vredespaleis; the Peace Palace where the International Tribunal resides.
As I walk on in a panic frenetically against the north wind every so often turning my head looking back over my shoulder I begin to mutter I don’t know what I’m uttering perhaps out of fear and anger I’m cursing I mutter to myself as I walk along I can’t understand what I’m saying I seem to hear myself say my dreams disown me perhaps I’m chanting at the wind and rain at the dark rolling sky soon Scheveningseweg bends straight north and as I reach the old sycamore trees that line the avenue not knowing why I begin to run at first slowly then at an even and moderate pace the cold drizzle-laden breeze gently caresses my face as I run I settle into a kind of mesmerized state soon I’m running past the Zorgvliet park on my left and through the Scheveningse Bosjes park on my right and in time I begin to sing perhaps I’m chanting maybe I’m speaking in tongues as I seem to hear another voice whispering again a life still mine a still life mine in bits and pieces girones de viento in shreds of breezes whispering
all sorts of things rush by,
all that and much more rushed by,
what does it river mean?
by foot or on the wing becoming and going
into off course with a smile
a stray stream into endings just beginning
accidental and resisting foiled interest into messy logic
other territories from discourses ended
divisive islets of meaning
meandering as growing sand banks move across the page careening
whenever and ever as whatever it means to mean
the sea helps to place a space a splace
splicing the place and the space into two overlapping waves licking
there is why a wall to ask a mark
because becomes turned alleged question before to
speak in knots which is to say what a cul de sac
a ledge where a voice is what and who speaks of it
terminated breathing as song initiated at
moments before a blank page
wavefunction as what
be before becomes comes into
being be cuase be becomes why
laid bare bore because agape in cloudlessness
be because becomes be caused
became turned away things turned out
commencing here against each other and
one another as be before goes round unfolding into answer
wrapped around which wrap around what
which wrap round afternoon moment turned
unfolding said it is said and what of it
is what and why the in as it is a trace to sentence falling
the only of which it is the of
of it itself as de-forming into chiaroscuro
as eye language just begun
by no to something nothing is but
what to remains of motions terminated
there is and much more that is to say what
and then pushing what words wait for thought
sign flotsam discombobulation
some jetsam to forget
and then some more again so what of it
it means what it is what means it is
-guished from each other
nobody now knows what dissipation’s wren
a talk in a breeze of doubt
to what of it and then some edges left to the to
undo the what it is that these are a tangent of
is almost a say
the page where on when
the moment to each and away
another to which
is or is not on debris is on
on as away
is a bare is a or is on a cloudlesssstreaming
so what of it
it means a what
it is it means
we each kept each we kept
a then now and when in what to which to say a violet
Listening to the whirls.
Una maraña de cosas, all tangled up in sound
In formation with - or lately at least –
More variety in the form of repetition
another time around;
This continuity to which “I” belongs.
means by a sea repeating
reproduced enough becomes into being because
such that enough again restriction ended
to antipathy this day of clear cut divisions
moans by a sea retreating so tiresome the things
and meaning the names now droop away
what breath blows what leaves into sun’s waves coalesce
whose inflection beyond prone
language something sometimes remains ended
motions piece a blank plank across out by the telling reasons with light interjections scrambled
howl’s appropriate place is when
and now a remains
from which broken erroneous formation message
continuity gap agape frozen circuit explosive
meaning “I” as of in the with what distinction plenty marks a place
enough more resting just begun
endings growing again meaning laid bare because things and one answers became speak
a ledge terminated and then it is what –sively and then these the page away is then by now a means
such that this day of clear cut erosions began deforming
landscapes of languages colliding as wheat against blue to light of fiction
fricative nasal plosives in-
formation with or lately at least all sorts,
all that what and does rushed by on foot talking
at speaking becomes smile
knots freely disproportionate into a reduced version of this continuity
as something other than working against the shaping
final fallen repetition I mean
plenty marks a place
some so such and so such is enough
such that enough some so much said made so
gives this constantly summer into
interactive about which just then so remembers
what this is stories foreigneous ‘n everything
just because discovered at intrusive of when is then
windblown light about which of these so figured words
wait in wobbly places
so much so words
more much so that then enough much so
that made when is said so much
so said that them words
again seldom said begun again so said and
Interjections with scrambled howls approximate
change remains sometimes appropriate wandering
up ended motions now piece a blank page
listening to the whereabouts of when
what words were saying in swirls churning this thought in
something making here a petal
liking them they think not only who as much or any some not what
will they when a knot make unwinding pauses
what when were you saying what an intent was
that were saying is overgrown
should be in thought translated as
whisper interjections change up-ended listening
were saying something think not will they what
that translating whisper howls at blank page
so much across coalescing language
telling reasons said so much more than enough
I find myself wandering near the area where Scheveningseweg bends slightly east becoming Prins Willemstraat which, in turn, veers north-east becoming Juriaan Kokstraat taking me into the town of Scheveningen proper where the street changes name again becoming Gevers Deynootweg; the large avenue that runs parallel to the Scheveningen beach on the North Sea.
I walk in a daze for a while oblivious of the traffic and the crowds that frequent this busy part of town and then head for the beach. Once there I make a sharp right toward the east in the direction of a town called Wassenaar. I walk past the old hotel, the Kuurhuis, the Skyview pier and the nudist beach, then, onward to Het Puntje and the wooden stairs that will lead me up the dune to where the old German bunkers stand.
The beach extends for miles and miles, not a soul can be seen. In the distance, I hear a ship’s foghorn. The night is rapidly closing in. A cold, damp breeze picks up from the sea bringing in more rain down from a roiling, dark gray sky. In time, I see Het Puntje and the wooden stairs that rise up to the dark silent shapes of the bunkers on the grassy dune-tops. They look like patient sentinels, impassively looking out to sea, reminding me somewhat of the Moai of Easter Island. I amble up the old wooden stairs toward the dark looming shapes of the bunkers. Once there, standing at the top of the dune, I turn my gaze back to the sea I feel the cold breeze pleasantly caress my face and see a heavy bank of fog moving slowly on the surface of the water toward the shore
I mutter to the sea I mutter to the darkness as I turn around and move further on up the dune until I reach a rusty old sign that says Verboten!: Forbidden! hanging from the fence that separates the field of bunkers from the pedestrian path.
I reach for the fence’s barbed wires and with both hands pull them apart. I duck under and in between and soon find myself in a field of tall, blond grasses walking uneasily toward the bunkers.
I wonder if there might be any land mines left over from the war. Inland, in the distance behind me, in the midst of the Scheveningen wilderness-preserve, the old water tower’s light dimly illuminates the southern façades of the bunkers; they are covered in graffiti. I wander aimlessly for a while among the tall grasses and weeds that grow everywhere until I find what I’m looking for
muttering to the breeze I lay myself down in a furrow carved out in the sand by the northern winds covered over by a scrub of weeds and grasses snug in my overcoat feet pointing
toward the gray North Sea belly warm with the contents of the flask in my pocket I mutter again to the breeze
- a life still mine - I hear it whisper back - in bits and pieces strung together in word metal scraps a still life mine I hear it whisper a life in bits and pieces strung together in word metal scraps same old words same old scraps a patch work a million times over and then some more and then again I mutter to the sand
I mutter to the sea and to the breeze to the pale tall grasses leaning over me I mutter to the dark rolling sky I mutter to the graffiti covered walls of the bunkers nearby
and the cold the fog the cold gray fog seeping into everything
Some sections of Song of Anonymous are composites made of bits and pieces taken from other texts, whether in the form of a direct quote or as paraphrases, which when put together in collage or bricollage fashion, constitute the narrator’s voice or rather, his many voices. A list of these sources is provided below.
1) Adorno, Th. W., “La posición del narrador en la novela contemporánea,” Notas Sobre Literatura, Obra Completa, 11, De la edición de bolsillo, Ediciones Akal, S.A., 2003, Sector Foresta, 1, 28760 Tres Cantos, Madrid, España. My translation.
(Adorno, Theodor W., “The Position of the Narrator in the Contemporary Novel,” Notes on Literature, Complete Works, 11, From the pocket editions, Ediciones Akal, S.A., 2003, Sector Foresta, 1, 28760 Tres Cantos, Madrid, España. My translation.)
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