Thursday, April 30, 2015

Nominative Determinism

Every moment tortured by its self-awareness, anthropomorphised like the feminine. To understand this it is necessary to really know that the Greek word anthropos means man.

To understand this it is necessary to look no further than its context.

The writing is arbitrarily separated, categorised, imagined through refrain. It is an inherently physical writing. It is independent of narrative, except as it pertains to the machine that constructs it.

It is prescribed by the body of the author, as much as associated prejudices are imposed on the text through this self-knowledge, of author and audience.

The Contemporary:
Not chronologically nor anachronistically but rather descriptively “Contemporary,” the moment of stasis that is post-industrialisation, frozen as an arbitrary gesture against that which came before, which is all that it refers to, the absence of the past, of humanism shocked to death by barbarity “no poetry," nothing will ever be the same.

Nominative determinism:
At base a tautological statement, all words pertaining to reason and understanding somehow mean to diminish, they are words of containment and confinement.

All determinism is logocentric, it seems silly to even apply the word "determinism" when it applies to nothing but prejudice.

The nature of human intelligence is that it is not.

There is little to be lost and the whole world gained in thinking beyond reason.

Finally managed to explain myself, and to great affect, by simply stating that I remark (explain, stating, remark) that I (discuss) art as it pertains to capital, as it is predicted by its environment. Which is to say (say) that I write about everything, somehow, and yet it suffices by way of (definition).

With only a negative return on work, or real-time investment, accelerationism passing for belief in the afterlife.

Exhausted and exhaustive style making cheap the attempts toward accelerationism, as ordinarily unwittingly as they may be devised, and obsolete the anti-individualist attempts at retrofit individuality.

Once upon a time, belief was incentivised, but this system is perfect. It is all over.

For my part, believing in nothing, my independent dissociative state determined only to process phantom pain more or less resulting in the failures of my physiology and my nerve.

Task-negative network, overcome by the tacit incapacities of this working life, forging ahead only when stricken, closer somehow to the conditions of existence than when making money out of money.

I can't now and could never keep up with the expansionist intentions of those that set the working week.

Made all illness the responsibility, and indeed the fault of its sufferer as though it were subject to their authorship.

Here I am (there I go), one of capitalism's Dead Souls, feted to belong only to the hoard in an unfinished and morbid scam, or else to be wasted, to go to waste.

Light that by not being, throws into relief that which cannot be seen, the building blocks of the vegetative state, simply enough to feed off of, black light.

It just striking me as hard to penetrate, my own thoughts, a semi-permeable membrane.

The logic of penetration being assimilated as symbolic of a loss, a gift, a submission, is rape culture. And I have no desire to subject my perfect body to anthropomorphisation.

As a much younger man I attempted to write in metaphors equally virile, equally violent as those imposed by penetration in the dominant article. I wrote as one of a series of simple aphorisms: "I want to suck up all his juices through both sets of lips, and fucking, assimilate him."

The necessarily degenerative project of maturation.

I have nothing left to say.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

By Degrees

It has been so long since I have written to anyone. The last few months feel somehow unreal. The cyclonic winds outside (importantly of the current cyclone and not a neologism to sell vacuum cleaners) are lashing at the windows, and the sudden drop in temperature is exacerbating a neck injury that almost feels deserved due to the failure of my nerves, while so much has happened, and yet so little changed. I have forgotten how to ascribe a narrative to my life, which I believe has much improved my writing, but also seems to speak to my divorcement from my situation. It is as though I have never really been depressed before recently, because I had never before stopped caring, where a strange militant apathy has become something of a coping mechanism. I am reading over this as I write it and it occurs to me that disengaging as I have lately I have lost so much in ceasing to hear the voices of my peers in my head. It was only life that got in the way, grim enough, as it always is, when it gets in the way, becomes a reminder of itself and its negation. I never know whether it is that I am very bad at coping with things or very good. I read quite a terrible interview with Lars Von Trier today where he nevertheless managed to drop the insight that maybe 80% of our mental capacities as humans are allegedly invested in shutting out sensory information so that we can deal with what little we process, and maybe those more sensitive have something broken in them that stops them from blocking the world out. I do feel as though that is what lead me to become an artist, some peculiar dysfunction disabling me from going along with things, acquiring and accumulating things that others seem to want and need, finding a partner in order to perform the procreative function, even just vacuously. I have been feeling like whatever those connections were that were broken inside me have begun to heal, like I could write things perfectly clearly and in prose, and no longer obscure my insight through necessity, having nothing left to protect, no soft centre. It necessarily challenges all my cherished illusions towards a vocation... Provides me with the possibility of moving toward a less fruitless, fearful and frustrating existence... At least right up until I have given up completely, and then so does my body. I suppose that despite myself, I still have no filter. I still think about using everything that happens to me, turning it into something... every relationship is leeched of its potential by the exploitation of its potential. I even inhabit stylised obscurity now, down to my wood-panelled studio apartment that was formerly a motel room, the performance of existence can continue unhindered, my father's entrepreneurial streak, perhaps even his aesthetic, subverted by a mode of intelligence, only a fashion, that subverts popularity and the potential capital therewith, a masturbatory enunciation of supply and demand.
I am coming back round to my earlier cooking show, perhaps... Thinking that I might as well go all out, really offer to sell my life off by degrees, which seems to be happening anyway... With the idea that everybody has to eat providing some respite, at least a view to a future where I could use my creative capacities without deadening them, where I could still have room to think, perhaps just daydream... a degustatory gesamkunstwerk... concept catering replete with thematics and a sound philosophical bias... build a website to attract patrons of the arts to patronise my life capacities, as cook and host and spectre of their spectatorship (I have been thinking of starting a conceptual catering service). I don't know. The days are bleeding by in a service economy gone the way of the author of The Satyricon, ordered by famously mad power to suicide, drunkenly haemorrhaging at the penultimate party... ah Sydney, how I've despised you, and with such fervour that I could hardly have existed anywhere else.

Everything by degree, increments met by time and nowhere else to go... Degree by degree until the world becomes uninhabitable, degraded, as is, of course (the same etymological route), a step down (is what it means), and at every rite of passage where I have found myself proving my artistry by external mechanisms I have felt it, no real knowledge would submit to the checks and balances put in place merely to ensure the competency of potential workers... but with the failure of resources, increasingly, it is all this society offers, until all degrees are meaningless through ubiquity and lack of quality, until each step is towards obscurity, whether or not the foundational moment was the study of the sun (360 degrees), whether or not the earth was round, these climactic shifts mirroring everywhere the descent into the barbarism predicted by our forebears (barbarians, as in, not Roman). I was just looking for a way out of consigning my intelligence to and by degrees, hoping against hope to be bought out at a fair margin, commission taken in the name of rental terms dictated by an increasingly hostile market, though hostility had hardy been applied as an understanding of market terms. But buyers or sellers, it no longer mattered, the accumulation of capital was no longer the concern of a lifetime but an intergenerational affair, and I worried myself half-to-death over what I am going to do when I am no longer supported by a scholarship, how I will simply support what to others seemed a meagre existence, clothed and sheltered in fashions so eccentric as to in themselves support fascistic theories affecting the pervasive feeling of my lack of procreative insight. It could all change at any moment but for the lack of any likelihood of that, which as good as perpetuated the myth of my deserved solitary confinement. But closer to the truth of things with a degree not experienced (talk of profit) traded at a loss.

Friday, April 17, 2015

that which grounds us

The free internet. "Technocratic insulation."1 I never was a true believer, kept my thoughts as close to my chest as possible as soon as I was made aware of the notion of "intellectual property," as true to individual agency as the notion of "human resources," which of course began its life as the much less ghoulish "human relations."2 But everything has moved on from there. "They" have taken over this cyber world of possibility and turned it towards further corporate puppet mastery. I have been internalising my rage... and attempting to keep my writings to myself like they might finally somehow become a marketable product that can save me from an almost inevitable return to the poverty line. I am really quite ashamed of myself and my vanity. I was listening to this wonderful interview with Genesis P-Orridge yesterday (, laughing to myself when he spoke of disbanding Throbbing Gristle because they had started to become popular... Made me choose to redouble my efforts, check my motivation, where security has come to represent a kind of smothering blanket of pettiness, cruelty and weakness... so much wrong done in the name of insulating ourselves from all incursion. Semi-permeable...
I am still very afraid... These times are not like the '70s... it is hard to imagine getting by working three days a week and having plenty of time off to think and to cause trouble... Hard to imagine surviving without somehow buying in... The triumph of the aristocracy is nearly complete. And I used to write about art, the Contemporary, not chronologically nor anachronistically but rather descriptively “Contemporary,” the moment of stasis that is post-industrialisation, frozen as an arbitrary gesture against that which came before, which is all that it refers to, the absence of the past, of humanism shocked to death by barbarity “no poetry after Auschwitz,"3 nothing will ever be the same. More than anything a late Christian and post-Christian incarnation of the underpinnings of Islamic art: non-representational: showing the divine through His handiwork... Or the handiwork of every white-male-genius these days. As art is as was it ever: a mirror held up to hegemony. Of course, most of what it is now is not at but cultural production made directly for "the market," which apparently has little to do even with any individual's taste and desire, beyond power over others, the power to put a high price on pointless, useless objet. These things are easily understood when hearing artists speak of whether or not things are "professional," or speak of their "research" or their "practise." Any true believer in such "weasel words" is unlikely to make anything like art, though it's entirely possible that every time I say this, a fairy dies... at least that is the usual reaction...

Programming programming, codifying code, saying enough to say no. Stuck here in this futile context supposed to be building my brand, branding my build. Codifying coding, all the dependent disciplines depending, awareness of the system as a call to facile work. Disciplining disciplines... At least there was something to write when there was murder. This is passive repression. All the noise of the ages as reasserted as a three minute pop song appropriated from the ruins of the disenfranchised. Eviction by dereliction. My duty to the known universe to be known. If there was anything to be sure of I'd be sure of it. To be fabricated is not to be made. A wonderful place, in its place, someone to think it so, in its place someone to imagine it to be, in its place someone who never imagined it so, but whose latent romantic leanings made it seem so, maybe enough in the interim that it may be enough. Better to be powerless, lest the others envy your obscurity specifically, lest you be anything specifically that may alienate you from the everywoman. Every successive thought torturous, having worked through the pain enough to be left with nothing without it, without work. Indiscriminately indiscriminate. There had to be some kind of severing or severance, as though the two were so semantically similar as to predict each other, like you always gained from walking away, or even from being moved-on. I could continue to dine out on all the times it conspired that there was never a thought for me: a self-description reliant on there being nothing else to go on with, the age of the narcissist, so important was it to maintain the illusion of individualism. Papering the world with itself. The whole universe laid out before me in binary or else some kind of economised plurality I would never know, even as much as I what I knew. I don't know enough to even know how little that I do. I have always been too proud. But they can always make me suffer for the things that I got right... I used to experiment with the edge of things... that horizon line that you can't quite make out, owing to the fact that of course you can't make it out because gravity is endless, so much so that it exists across dimensions and is comparatively weak as a force, that which grounds us. A failure to look further, not a failure of sight but of mind, of the religious order, myopic in its location in mind. With that in mind, everything else might adopt a distinction as dubious as a horizon line, as arbitrary as a border, these feats of rebellion that can be achieved only through their ultimate impotence. This is ultimately unsatisfactory, seeing an end to everything like the horizon line. Only a line of sight. Desiring exactly this, such as it is, and then only wanting to be away from it. Story of my life, whatever came too easy... It became oppressive, the sincerity, the cynicism, it left me alone. Gripped by the passive horror of the active forces, the passive repressions of an economy that took its lessons from imprisoning the poor on open land, and from the genocide that as supposed to have been necessitated by this system of open warehousing. I could seek only to be denied, knowing full well what anything more might mean... what I might mean to become by being in any way agreeable to what had been established, to those that had been established. They even robbed us an intergenerational exchange, wearing out those who might teach resistance with successive incarnations of scared and alienated youth pushed on them at an hourly rate as predetermined by bureaucracy that meant to organise all your time, taking more time, and then some, each year a bigger commitment to prove initially that it was, while robbing exchanges of any real exchange beyond the real, the rate of exchange. Just do it or don't, see if I care... Don't see if I care, it's better that it never become apparent that I do. It's safer for us to be involved when we aren't, it's safer when we aren't anything quantifiable. I won't see. It will come and I won't see it, and I won't be here when I am, finally. Maybe another thing I forgot to understand when I did. They didn't tell you that for nothing, they asked for payment in advance, or at least that you'd sign up for it with your life, which had become, after all, so little to ask, so little to ask, your whole life ahead for a few moments of an indulged and alienated youth. I don't see it beyond where I do. I had hoped someone might step in and save me from the obvious fate, the obvious fate was that no one would. I would have a few moments of an indulged and alienated youth, attracting all manner of indifferent beauty for a few seasons burnt out by the harsh fluorescent light they aimed squarely at the population that none might have a moment off work that they might think. I stole a few moments from the people I understood, but whatever it was, it wasn't clear to them, maybe enough that they were heard, where it was for the best that I wasn't often understood. Give it all up in service wherever I could find a number of those I might help that I could stand to. Such an obvious colonial trajectory. An identity cemented before it was made official, like I might take it with me if ever I believed in the connection of the present with history, of history with the present, where it was so well-hidden in plain sight, with so many with so much to lose by its dissemination. A harshly limited number of words or symbols for being. Give it up, just give up being (insert whatever it is here, insert a meaning). I couldn't care less if it belongs or it doesn't, the two distinctions are quite distinct, but nonetheless indifferent, contradistinct. I don't take your meaning, it's going to take me, doubtless, so little hope for resolution, so little resolution for hope. I'd take it all back to arm me now if I could, to resist, to hide in plain sight, the horizon line.

1"Thomas Jefferson warmed that the newly rising 'banking institutions and moneyed incorporations' would destroy the freedoms won in the American revolution, becoming the foundation of a 'single and splendid government of aristocracy' if given a free hand. So they were, to a degree that exceeded Jefferson's worst nightmares, though not through the expression of popular will; rather primarily by courts and lawyers, acting in 'technocratic insulation' from the annoying public, to borrow some of the lingo of World Bank recommendations." Noam Chomsky, "Forward" in Alex Carey Taking the Risk Out of Democracy: Corporate Propaganda Versus Freedom and Liberty (Illinois: University of Illinois Press, 1995). ix-xvi
2Alex Carey "The Human Relations Approach" in ibid. pp 143-152.

3More famous but technically wrong quote attributed to Theodore Adorno, who actually wrote "Writing poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric." in Cultural Criticism and Society, 1951.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

NOT TO SCALE (Vandalism)

Should at least avoid moving about in the middle of the day... Behavioural rules of the subtropics... Here, as always, in danger of acclimatising too well and simply ignoring the elements as inevitable... going about things as if: if ever there is the narrow possibility of life: there it will be... But when being too precious about the whole thing: rather predicting its own fragility: creating the kind of inertia that is life's only manifestation of its negation. One owes it to one's life-affirming bacteria to get on with things with no apparent reason and with no plan. Only once something has manifested does it seem at all likely, where in a sense, it is inevitable.

Thought police, they thought... they thought as much as they understood, as much as they...
So many gestural applications for false dichotomies (they were neither he nor she nor plural but somehow all) and at the end only a body —always some kind of body— as much an organisation as can be expected on a molecular level... even above it: the will of the bacteria, so much that will might be contingent upon it... but they never policed thought: they didn't have to, they could predict behaviours, they could influence with suggestion, they could create desire out of itself. They desired to experience desire with other, with another they of indeterminate article, desire was only itself, afterall. Others were above it, others had discipline, they would impose it, they would have it, undermined by not being undermined by the socialisations common to humanity (common humanity). I had almost had that, had almost had it, the further I got away, the pervasive rule of nontruths and arbitrary beauty supplanting any sense I looked for (in any sense). Defeated I returned, I returned to the instinct toward humanity, it became me, flattered by my new aspect, by my resignation, the precision with which my treatise of reconciliation was writ, finally appeasing me with the uncertain aspects of my situation, whether fighting or not, an unconcern for injustices that had hitherto ruled my mind. Suddenly all superstition abated in the knowledge of perpetuation, the self-proclaimed right of actualisation, the right that if it always had been then so should it be... and that knowledge that it didn't leave a space for me, and that the overwhelming desire not to participate, the violence of my initial reactions from all those years ago, they were not a mistake, they were not unfounded. None of this would have been possible with privilege, all the things they say about art being contingent on resources was there to undermine the possibilities of the underclasses that they made real by the refusal to acknowledge their very existence, as much as anything else... I never went about choosing loss so as to become, I never wrote until I had lost everything. The poetry of the ruling class is just that, there is nothing that can be said that is more derisive then that statement... luminous on stock market walls... Life, but not art, favours the complicit.

Experimental non-fiction could pertain to just about anything, never having fabricated characters, being judged, finally, on destiny, whatever is made final, the past (the perfect tense). Going on, to go on this must somehow subvert its own physicality, be embodied, an ideological enjambment: Writing approximates coding, more in common
with pictograms, cave paintings
than with reciprocation, it is proto religious language:
leaving it behind, positing it.
The following has more commonalities
with musical notation, it necessitates reading aloud,
like conversation, like the internet
cacophonous and obliterative facts.
If you want to know if any of it is true feel free to google it... whatever may stay with you... if you can physically touch the internet in this way, as we must presume of those thereafter to read this publication that this writing aspires to then you can engage with the research on your own time. This may all sound better read directly from its source. Therefore the only course of action is to approximate my body with your voice. This is wary of its physicality and thus disembodied. There is no body... Anything but the body, which can refer only to death.

The Anglo-Saxon word “man,” is along with the Dutch equivalent, the only known linguistic example of a word meaning “adult human" without speaking to sex: there was just an extra prefix added to denote either husband or wife, which is where the word “woman” comes from. To someone somewhere during the formation of the roots of this language, the commonalities of our species overrode our procreative function... but civilisation tends to apply extremes to the ideas of what sex consists in, because civilisation is usually very bored. I seek not to ask "What have the Romans ever done for us?" but rather to identify as the descendent of the Vandals, seeking to create and then build on the ruins of Empires both convinced of and bored with themselves, the vicious stagnation all around. Cultural assumptions undone by simply being couched in the spurious reality, the accidents of history that amount to each and every one of us... Apparently the (Christian) Norman invaders were shocked when they tried to invade Anglo-Saxon villages when the men were away, not realising that the women and children would be armed and good fighters in their own right... And what possible reason could there be for not arming women and children against the threat of incursion... silly decisions of civilisation... When the Normans invaded… that was when England was invented… some kind of amazing Anglo-Saxon capacity for assimilation… a rapid and perfect assimilation of relics and a heightened sense of superiority, the creation of this language that could and would consume everything with constant reference to “The Word.” Blame it on language… speaking of… Not doing it.

PREFACE ("opening part of sung devotions")
Privilege permitting, privilege holding out, as it did when it didn't. Stealing a few minutes back from the dense Australian summer for reflection, a few minutes back from the hivemind, if not for history, for the past. Esto Sol Testis. Let the sun shine on your balls... spoken for always... spoken for always as bathed in light, transparently untouched by it, the darkness of disproportionate fears, of the envy of the honest... seat of learned... centuries of self-affirming understanding pitted against the same centuries of self-negating knowledge. It was never a question as to which side I would come down on. A reverence belied by its course ease. Finding it easy to write in a manner befitting an era in which penmanship found itself so important as to be worthy of its own occult science, divining its author, their intent and their character. Very little would now rest on character... Dining in triumph over the living room as the kitchen annex/lounge room/dining room might refer to itself finding itself bereft of resources but well-equipped with wit. Everything, once upon a time, was anthropomorphised due to the widespread practise of accommodating the thoughts and feelings of women. Mock triumph over my forebears having presently outlived them. Witnessing the standardised possibilities: the perfumes whose names don't aspire to poetry but to sterile promiscuity, so little now to be found in or understood by names, so witlessly co-opted into the code of the market...
Acedia. Fornicating the strains of a devotional, the supplicants of capital of late. They make like growth were a function of immortality. We just can't get enough credit, having never before borrowed, having no proof of our dependency, nonetheless somehow always more aware of it, always made to be. We were hitting that raw nerve, every successive line, precision in its artlessness like a disinterested lover, they were fundamentally disinterested who would make the process so fundamental. Theoretically having access to most of humanity's available knowledge on hand throughout most of the major centres somehow necessitated the democracy of limitations, playing only with abbreviations, never mocking the exhaustive arcane and archaic roots of this expansive, imperial, bloodless tongue.. Exhausted world's possibility undermined by baseness, indiscriminate sexuality; as love is undermined by romance, and romance by love; as diversity is undermined by fetishisation. The Western cannon's ludicrous assertions making territorial pissings of the first instances of attempts at understanding other animals, understanding ourselves, it having been recently discovered that the majority of cave paintings were actually made by women, as much as first patriarchy and then capitalism would assert that all of it had been done for a fuck. And in the beginning there was all experience reduced to sexual violence levelled at the weak, civilisation's long joke, the rape culture that is the ruling classes. Back in the antipodes, everyday fascisms of urbanisation, in Melbourne they made a publication, in Sydney they threw a party... sometimes their body taking over their body, but not in such a way as it related particularly to other people, who tended to maintain the distance of admiration. We never thought we'd feel anything again... feeling having become so much something of the past, all the nostalgia we associate with trauma.
Smelling of sweat and redistribution, I knew in the heat of putrefaction where I was, over the roar of the cicadas and all they might come to represent in some poxy poetic imagination. I smelt of sweat and industry, just waiting for something to turn me into me, a redistribution of the desirable aspects of community, existing by will as prescribed by poverty, confusion to enemies, until finally, whatever that is, or at least what it looks like, can be assimilated back for the good of their betters... understood things of a magnitude of which I had no knowledge of, as always: some kind of approximation born of cycles of parochialism. At a stretch I could blame much of my repression on physical limitations. I had this fear of things not changing, that what I was to become had everything to do with what I was and did daily, incrementally creeping up on me without fear of discovery, without some fatal creature approaching and appeasing and binding me to some contract as the desirable and desired and not as an entity in any way separate from that which I seem, like women are trained to disdain their agency where it interferes with their sex. living like we were in some kind of strange vacuum in which power was available to those who possessed it, and not something attributed to those seeking to receive it in the sanction of others perceived to have ownership, which goes back to patriarchy. Religion and industrial psychology offering everything in terms of salvation, forgetting the relatively short history of original sin, the invention of a cloistered Augustine, to be undone by the Vandals... In the past finally finding myself perfected from the the very beginning and perfect... fully formed, as everything is only in the past, much more so than in the myriad possibilities of the present. If it actually went somewhere then it would all be gone, like literature. Such a shame, that literature is only... Stupefaction as representation of awe... some terrible assertion meant to simulate real dejection, theatre of privilege. I've painted myself into a corner of the earth, as much as only I could have found the edge of theworld, with my prevailing sense of historical knowledge, prevailing over any sense of pragmatism or belief in the progress that afforded me. Painting the earth with earth was what was always, with some deeper more ancient irony, to be expected of this place.. It was something you couldn't quite put your finger on, and would always be suppressed by those with a much greater (even financial) interest in making out that we own but do not belong to this land, the rape culture of the ruling class. I had always been averse to any kind of plot that was anything other than a physical manifestation... the ability to draw being undervalued by many, but especially those of the contemporary architectural profession, rescaling the earth until it is within our grasp, creating resources all the better for their relationship with our propensity for emulation.. It was a wonder... the fall of representational art, as though there could ever be anything else, such was the obscene hubris of the times... for other more ancient notions or cultures, there was no past, and yet there would always be.
They caught up, I have become current, come current, concurrently I bleed, with all the sad winters ascribed to me and my perfect aspect, as of the past, it is not my time, time tells, they tell me I once belonged to this masculinised throng of screaming-ranting petulant poets, though I wrote with none but my own voice, my own voice wrote with none but itself in isolation, a violation of the integrity of form, of common humanity.

A way to stake claim on a name that isn't, both a name that isn't and a claim that isn't... whatever other way their is to turn that around in one's mind like playing with an interesting insect in one's hand, a preying mantis, perhaps. Barely holding it together, not entirely sure why... Could be the hangover... which feels like it stretches back the length and ever decreasing breadth of the universe, to that point. Sometimes you can adapt so well to bad situations that you can convince yourself that it was what you had wanted all along, and you find yourself nursing your own attachment like a self-directed Munchausen Syndrome. At the same time, the relief now that the wind's picked up and he's given up. The asinine cyclonic drift of leaves, like a ballet for the under-stimulated, another time. Altered at the end of my bravery, finally relenting, ashen insomniac existence finally coming across like a junkie goth with the hacking cough of the deservedly ill, them what brought it on themselves, getting those glances from the general public, now waiting at the Glengarry... It being so beautiful at worlds' end (with compassion fatigue), though somewhat dimmed by this nagging despair and a cloying fever's cold humidity. The day after the world ended. There with every remaining fibre of my elastic and rapidly (deteriorating, degenerating) dissipating being, that is my new conception of space. Gone are the Mayans, and therewith the sorrow, that I could not have been easier, been married to something other than my work. All this while I carry on distancing myself with ease and agility, with skill and experience, with the depth of this deeply shallow reasoning, like a goth rock novelty act in answer to the backwards-trending reformers and reborns. The Mayans, like me, believed that space is just an abstraction of time. There's wisdom in thought unclouded by the haze of information. The universe is expanding in time.
"...In the beginning there was a ball of pure mass that blew apart and so now all we, as the conscious energy of the universe, want is to be one again. I’m awaiting the contraction of the universe and oblivion, until then I keep feeding the soil and my atoms become new things- it’s an abomination.”
“Why is that an abomination?”
“...Fucking... reincarnation...” short bursts of derision aimed at the bottom of my beer.
“What the fuck...?”
Silence. There's no time. The world has ended. I'm living on borrowed time with this one, he's giving me an exasperated look... I try to explain...
“The only thing worse than the thought of death, is the prospect of living forever, in any form.”
“Yeah.” He's bored with consistent novelty.
“So there's comfort to be taken in finitude, running out of gas... the universe will contract and we’ll be so concentrated as to once more be unproductive, self-loving nothingness.”
“So no change for you then, babe?”
Peels of uninhibited laughter ring out around the concrete. I've gone blind like an oracle. Drunk again. Useless.
I have no choice but to turn it into a love story, just like the novel, a one-dimensional hero with a bit of money behind him, make it like erotica if I want it to go anywhere. Unseduced by the furniture of my conversation...
This Romance they ended in, as though it were a beginning, plucked from the obscurity of their own imaginations by a series of flattering chance encounters supported by an unquestioning desire for the things that people desire without question... it would only seem petty to denounce their underlying puerility, the flowery descriptions they took at face value, as a shared confidence between them and the beleaguered poet, as he spoke for love as only a true narcissist were capable.

Remembered being in a mood disorder unit looking around at the other patients and thinking that I hadn't suffered enough to warrant suffering. I had always suspected myself of intellectual tourism, so resilient had I proven, and so little affected was I, by successive manifestations of the approximate horror that had all the while existed within me, just ever so slightly pulling me back where it could find no place in memory without doing itself the injustice of paralysing its host. It took me a long time to be able to accept that if I was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, it was enough that I was, that the suffering was enough to have warranted the suffering. It had seemed like I was coming upon a time in which to exist fully was to put it all together, as much as I was justifiably afraid to live without hysteria, considering how flatly dangerous it would make me, probably to myself: to be able to speak and to write in the objective manner of the oppressors, as much as I had little claim to it in my intransigence and always subjective physicality. The effects were already everywhere to be felt... I could get a lot further by simply freaking out, abjection was both a self-fulfilling prophecy and a mode of experience sanctioned for its comfortable relationship with the masculine appropriation of things like work and pragmatism, which had, up until recently, generally fallen on the physically weaker... the sexual violences that were to end in our end (petite mort)... we knew that in order to truly own us the oneman would always seek to wipe us out. And again: trauma: a wound, a hurt, a defeat (in the Greek)... PTSD like us, is fundamentally for those who have lost...
:I thought perhaps we enjoyed each other’s company so much because we had such a hard time of it… Of each other’s company...? And what. What you lose, you lost to it. Like blue cheese to age-decimated taste buds… Like, they say the reason you don’t like anything with a strong taste as a kid is because your senses are much more keen, more intense, so things that are cultivated into a kind of appreciation, it’s only because you have fewer taste buds to experience it… like cultivation is degenerate… a race to the grave... Still better than a race to the bottom, infantilism. And I do think that that’s what it is about us… we’ve always been a bit too adult… Having lost so many brain cells, so much of our neuroplasticity, we finally come to us… Us is fundamentally for them who have lost.
:It leaves you with a sense that there isn’t one.
...I wanted to start with the substance of what I’d already let go, but it just wasn’t there, in the end, it was somewhere else, in another present tense, belonging to a nominally different cellular makeup. If I go back then I go back, people speaking of all these twisted scenarios as though anything could ever really be as it was… perhaps if you were so attached to a sense of identity that you would forsake all potentiality… but other beings are not static as objects, you are a refrain in a rhythmic progression, as though never did I choose you by choice, but by proclivity, we were a shared refrain. Out of the bourgeois ashes. I have no site for the specifics, the rain preventing my next action. It’s not as bad as first I thought, all the extra one must do to get to the one line or the one thing that works. Not understanding my work, but understanding when seeing how I work that it is actually something… turning it into my life: that which comes out of it, turning me into my past like an Elektra complex.
...It all could have been named of earthly things, a language not dematerialising around religious conceit, a language recognising its own practise in the passing solidity of sound-waves, and electricity, and pieces of paper... I exist now in gratitude for the glass ceiling, the firmament, (bête comme la paix) (après moi le deluge) staring ceremonial upskirt at their wasted sex like the pilgrim at the edge of the world, writing from without my indolence like a broken promise to superstition. Morality plays that only work. Fruitless utilitarian, so wary of sugar, romancing Mayakovsky but only for his despairing futility. I never brought poverty on myself out of romance and privilege, I never sought it at all, I sought only privilege, like everyone else, found it in taking ownership of my own time, my own future. I need to be coupled that I might live somewhere where I am not being slowly killed by neglect. Writing of my maturity, at first blush, the writing of my maturity was just that, it was writing of it... thinking a chronology would somehow be divorced from the seasons and the cycles, that it would all lift away anew and I would somehow find a way to say things in a way that which would endear me to the greatest number. Now I can't even gratify the will to make physical that always somehow grounded my aspirations with a light gravity, soft power, passive repression, passive violence, like a mirror, only a mirror, souls of others.

Fermenting: Proto Germanic, literally to seethe. Pouring myself into the void like it could take me, crossing the firmament to be of the liquid again, preserved in brine, soused to meet my outsides, for want of a catalyst, to ferment. Developed as a process over thousands of years of discipline. I have a military industrial complex that the pharmaceutical industry seeks to sustain, offering me ways out that are in, and I don't distinguish between the drugs I choose and the ones that choose me. We're calling these references hackneyed because potentiality is unavailable to us, and that's why we have a military industrial complex, one of those simple confusions over causation, all these abstractions in which we trust. It's that reek when we have wasted, not permanent except that it will be, at least not the reek of humanity, but its evidence, punctuation amidst the artifice.