Lessness

Outskirts

Bodies that can hardly move. Muscles drained of energy to support the need of the limbs they constitute. Bones that crackle under the impulse sent from the brain about the emptiness in the stomach. About the empty pockets. About the dessert ravishing all the corners of what by now cannot even be distinguished as the inside, or, the outside of the body. Of the whole being. Eyes indifferent to the stimuli coming from the surrounding buildings. Because they are all the same. Invasive to the point of becoming indistinguishable from their seemingly varied occurrences. Anything that can ever meet the eye is yet another manifestation of the exhausting sameness. Hunger has no way to respond to visual signals. Powerless legs cannot run after an audio input for at least two reasons: (1) Being deprived of the strength necessary for a physical movement; (2) Being incapable to receive the signal.

Bodies motionless on the streets of the city. Emptying the misery of the dessertlike life into the deaf pavement, muted walls, sightless windows. An occasional groan is released as if the lack of energy were being compensated. Or, at least, in hope for such a compensation. No language is spoken where heaps of bodies cover the squares of the city, portraying a suburban version of the dark lands. No words among the remnants of the bodies that once ran, played, jumped. No warmth in the place where once a steady beat was rocking.

Thoughts whose origin is unknown are floating aimlessly. Nobody knows who sends them. Nor does anyone care to try to receive them. Because under no circumstances can they be rendered intelligible. How could they, when the stench of urine-saturated stones that pass for pillows conspire with the contagiously sour odor of the indistinguishable mixture of excrements, garbage, and thoughts.

Mouths are dry. Water is not within reachable distance. Because reachable distance is only here. In the narrowest of senses of the word. Wild-eyed dry mouths. With no water within reachable distance. Ears that cannot hear. Because the mouths are dry. Because the stomachs are fucking empty. Because there’s nothing in the pockets. Because there is no one who can speak so the words become intelligible.

Thoughts of urban desserts occupy the mind. The mind awash in stories about urban desserts. Empty stories. Told to noone. Because there is no fucking one who can make them communicable.

Bodies like heaps. Minds like streets. Stories like they have never been inspired by anything.

At the Bar

An uneventful afternoon found Ye Kids indulging themselves in the quiet of the gentle drizzle coloring the grey day with a touch of laziness…indifference to picturing a possibility that a smile of a sunny day could ever again bathe the city hopelessly drenched with the moribund staleness. There’s a juke box in the corner of the Café Club Museum bar. One wonders if the minds deeply submerged in their own content can ever register the sound coming from that funny object. Whether they are aware of the simultaneity of the other minds’ being equally incapable of receiving the same audio input is unknown, as well. To what extent those minds might perceive the muscles they move and that requite by sending a message about a satisfactory realization of the request is not compatible with the measurements available to either mind or the body. Likewise, to what degree the body movements condition the next requirement that the mind sends, too, exceeds the available measurements.

Nevertheless, the music from the juke box is filling the bar. Slowly, it starts moving in the way smell or light does.

Hey! The old factory is sending a message about a possible concentration of powers that demand prompt responses. Comrade grooviologists, do admit that, despite the overwhelming temptation to say that what you hear is not music, it is, nonetheless, so. That said, lift your shitty asses from the chairs, unglue the forearms from the soft embrace of the armchair, undo the grip of the cushion,  and get on your fucking feet, so we can within the space of no more than two seconds feel each other’s hands and start doing what we don’t exactly have to, but will!

Hey, yeah! What the fuck do you mean by asking from anyone that kind of admittance?

Hey, agree! Who the fuck are you to ask from anyone anything, let alone such stupid thing!

To hell with darkness! You know who I am and so should you know about your goodselves. If still not too sure, get your fucking memory refreshed and think anti-robozombism! Shut the fuck up and talk so we can understand each other, as we are recuperating energies for the counterrrites that are obviously being called for. Turn on the fucking organic processor of the info and get ready for the counter-post-coital-act.

Like, fuck! Like fuck!

Dapoltri!

Archive Stories

What until a moment ago sounded like the music that nobody recognized as such starts acquiring the shape of the screeching that no ear can be immune to. The noise is becoming so dense that it is transforming the atmosphere in the bar into vacuum. The noise is the blinding, rancid vacuum. The noise is the avalanche of the words impossible to comprehend. The noise is the flood of sewage waters of sentences that nobody produced. The noise is the face of an exploding gargoyle.  The noise is the blow of the stickiness of the gelatinous, molten remnants of solid entities. Petrified sound.

Bloody, fucking, shit! Turn the volume up! Right the fucking way!

the sound is the glow of the sand on the beach is the sparkle from the grain of sand is the smiles of the leaves on the trees are the thoughts thought are the steps walked is the music from the juke box is the sound recorded in the studio is the idea transpositioned into the audio form is the remix of the inspiration

Now, send this fucking shit to the Archive immediately!

Orajt! Orajt!

Archive Stories

Many are the ways in which the perplexities caused by the indeterminancy of terminology can be perceived. There are probably just as many possibilities to interpret them. Additionally, zillions of approaches, known and unknown alike, can be thought of in an attempt to conjure up a meaningful, inspiring, exciting, interesting, logical, justifiable, tenable, understandable, beautiful, moral,  and /or comprehensible explanations, claims, arguments, descriptions, proofs, and / or statements about the puzzles such as: (a) The intricacies of the hardly explicable reflections of the sunbeam on a grain of sand and the glow spreading over the seashore; (b) The sinuous edges of certain architectonic specimens evoking the floating sound of saxophone; or, acute, robust minimalist lines of another type invoking a combination of an unadulterated chord reverberating from the solid guitar body and a disinterested, detached, alienated vocal disguising an emotional load; or, some plain windows and facades suggestive of anything but the stardust being dispersed from the keyboard of a century old piano; (c) A redemptive impact of dialectical architecture on the urban mind.

Colliding concepts and their meanings, or absence thereof, entail a further examination of the imagery inspired by the notions. The collision typically triggers a series of loops propagated from the meaning of samples in contact. Not only are the loops a manifestation of such communication, but they also create an additional layer of the interpretative potential that demonstrates a simple aspect of the everyday: the cyclicity of oscillations between auto-consuming and auto-generating discursive powers.

On How To Phunkie ReadWriteRemix (ØøøØ) shows dozens of examples  that trace the thematic from the infamous A Pangalactic Manifesto featuring a study of postcoital phobic demeanor of chronically depressive mammals and birds. The proverbially notorious narrative about the obscure colossus who happened to be suffering from the syndrome hides a symbolic level indicating an inclination towards a certain lifestyle since the time that the book looks at. The paradox is tracked through the examples archived both in the walls of the ancient suburban  factory buildings and in the Café Club Museum on the Beach whose cliffs bear witness to the numberless occasions of counterrites confronting nihilo-cannibalist raids. The comrades engaged in the resistance against robozomboid attacks are a gang of chancers, fellow-cyborgs, devotees of science, worshippers of aesthetics of boredom, admirers of steam engine verse, acolytes of powerhouse metaphor, disciples of enlightening allegory, followers of heavy duty syntax and light punctuation, a.k.a. The Abreville Kids.

Numerous studies signal the trajectory leading from modest assumptions towards a more clearly marked insight into the discovery achieved through team work of the world’s top grooviologists. The findings address the challenging phenomenon bringing to awareness the peculiar relationship between discourse and the everyday. Namely, the tendency towards refutation of a representational approach to discourse ended up in extremist championing of extralinguistic experiences. Right as they might be in divesting the everyday of the narrative, thereby preventing colonization of the former by the latter, they failed to acknowledge that it implied transferring onto the empirical level the content that belongs in storytelling, thereby allowing colonization in the opposite direction. Put differently, the other extreme was a scenario of the world being hijacked by the realm of letters. One pole on the scale of increments of discourse and the everyday provided humans with an unrealistic sense of omnipotence verging on divine power. The other reduced them to infinitely impotent robozombies. 

The glory of the dialectic is in showing either to be, in fact, impossible. The reason for this is that total control is an impossibility. A singular instance of the enigma is an attempt to purify art from any imperfection. That, as a rule, signifies a narcissistic delusion that magically sabotages itself, thereby revealing the imperfection of the artist and, at the same time, protecting one from somnambulism. This, however, by no means is to suggest that a reversal proves the opposite, i.e. one’s perfection. Nor is it to support the opinion that insisting on impurities ensures preservation of a human being. Finally, it certainly is not a claim in favor of the belief in the presumption that discourse is that what does all the miracle.  

Common wisdomS

In the book Mind and How It Intersects With Consciousness, the author discusses regulatory principles of ideas. The author seems to be emphasizing the transformation of knowledge into a truly freed thought. The climax of the meditation about the complex, interlaced multiangulation between and among mind, consciousness, ideas, and thought seems to be the observation about these moments having been exceeded. That remark seems to be signaling the conclusion about the philosophical marvel manifested in the alleged transparency of  the right to acknowledge the absoluteness of the everyday. This, again, would not be possible were it not for the prerequisite frankness that enables the validity of some statements, while some other utterances are due to it resisted for the insufficiency of argumentative power or the absence thereof. In some traditional vocabularies such faculty is called objectivity. In some traditionally playful parlances, however, it is called ye groove.

Between these ruminations and what another poet-thinker would have imagined, a shift in cultural consciousness occurred. What used to be known as traditional cultural categories amalgamated into newly formed hybrids. Or, so common wisdom has it. The uncommon one says that humanity just united under the green flag. Or, so the nihilo-cannibalist discourse of deception has it. 

There is a poem entitled A Story About Congenial Presentness. In it, the poet talks about time and the historicizable ahistorical  moments of realization how poetry is being created. In it, the poet hesitantly expresses one’s opinion about the ancient times when people were defending themselves from historical hostilities by cocooning art inside an imaginary perfection. Time showed, however, that by doing so, they not only exposed an unconcealable anxiety caused by sweeping contingencies, but allowed an impermissible transformation of their invisibility into a detrimental grandiosity. Simply put, their intended perfection of art turned out to be a utopian endeavor that not only proved impossible, but demonstrated their own sinful imperfection. Paradoxically, that saved them from a further pursuit of such silly dreams. Theirs, however, is not to be suggested as a recommendable recuperating practice, but not not to be perceived as a call for further struggle against auto-perpetuating and auto-consuming grandeur.

With that in mind, one imagines poets from the past to be the center of culture that in the times following theirs would not be possible. In other words, the popularity once achieved through a celebratory attitude of the audience at certain moments in history cannot be repeated in different cultural context. Later, cultural heroes were to be a bunch of experimentators playing with folk tradition while surfing on the waves of a droning  sound of sampled tambourine and trembling lyric vocals. It certainly does not deprive cultural scenes of the spaces for fat cylindrical distortions of a six-string-monster riff.  It surely enables the fuzziness of the syncopated, sticky tones emanated from the body of the (f)oYr string Xo(r)tak to converse with the  spreading subtonic web.  Nor does it numb the congenial dubs of  the ¾ rhythm of the sunlit trees smiling in gratitude to the source of that magnificent warmth. 

Missing Words

Essence, consciousness, reason, in-itself…whadeva…It all sounds the same to me. I wonder how any key words list can fail to include what to me seems to be the crucial one. That I hendecompre noT. None of these notions arouses my interest. Nor do they provoke my imagination. What occupies my mind is the word science. I am astonished by its ability to: (1) Redescribe art in the key of philosophy; (2) Prove that falsifiability, contrary to an ages-long belief, belongs in the sphere of theory; (3) Shines in the glory of its uncontrollably self-generating light of paradoxical dialectic of wholesomeness between inevitability and unacceptability.

When one walks, the pavement is an addressee in the dialogue about refiguring the notion of urbanity. The longer the step, the fully-fledged the question. The more articulate the query, the more clearly delineated the quandary. The more specific conceptual focus, the more responsive the addressee is. When I walk I only think about the sad fact that some key words list can neglect the significance of the vital force of the words such as science. That makes the world of art hardly redescribable, the realm of philosophy desolately deserted, and theory nothing but. It makes the steps, if not less decisive, than certainly chary. Step One: Is a theory modern if it claims to be radically new? Step V: Are not all avant-garde movements merely self-annihilating attempts to be  destructively constructive? Step Three: Are not all figures of speech metaphorically symbolic allegories of speech as a self-consuming act?  Step foYr: Can a radical refutation of authenticity be stated other than in an idiosyncratic idiom? Step FiVe, actually: Can literature be anything but proletarian, i.e. dialectical? Step Six: Can etymology be anything but resistance to the deceptive idea of the totality of discourse?  When I think about the arrogant ignoration of certain key words lists and their persistently rejecting the word science, I sometimes question my insistence on the importance of that word. Very rarely, though. Much more often my suspicious is directed towards the word itself. That feeling is so powerful that it can hardly be contained. So I just keep walking.

What Language!

Thinking of a way to make one’s interlocutor say something, and  yet avoid being pushy, it occurs that saying something in whatever language could correspond to an utterance in another language, as long as the content  is akin to the color of the thought that invites such a dialogue. Thus, one can swear saying “Good morning, can I have a pound of oranges, please,” if that sentence is produced in the tone normally indicating swearing. Likewise, one can say something that, if written down, loses the weight that the lightness of the expression attaches to it.

Such verbalizations can be exchanged in different ways. Among them, there are those that one routinely  uses to address whoever needs to be addressed. Others can be somewhat atypical. But nice. And yet, even among such weird means of communication, some can hardly be rivaled by any other. Only, not always do they find ways of reaching the ear that needs to hear them.

If a person says: “I’ll be with you in a second,” only the context, for example a shop, can reveal the actual meaning of those words, that otherwise, literally understood, can inspire misinterpretation and be misleading in potentially indicating verbal contact of a completely different kind.  Needless to say, that kind of semantic wandering is beyond dissatisfactory.

Another example of language peculiarity is deliberately coating one’s thought with an ambiguous linguistic decoration. As long as it is done in the tradition of Mon-T-Pay-T-oN, that’s cool. If it’s not, then it, more often than not, successfully provokes confusing reactions and stirs undesirable emotions. In the long run, more often than not, the success is nothing but.

Thus, one speaks, talks, says, utters, pronounces, expresses, explains, describes, narrate, orate…in language. Elusive language, that betrays even its own purpose. And it irritates the source that is trying to sustain the correlation between the clarity of thought and that of its verbal equivalent. Unsuccessfully so. It degrades one’s idea of language as an elevated human invention. It distorts one’s hopes that there is something inalienably human and that something be not so humanly imperfect as to deviate the very notion of the human. It crushes one’s romanticized image of the species as something unique. It defeats a possibility of sharing a sense of communality with cyborg-comrade-fellow-Travelers. But, having shown multiple grotesque faces, it turns once more, only to spill a smile of a thousand suns over an electrocuted heart of the frustrated language-user. Because language, except  for being so decisively arrogant and mercilessly disobedient, is also a gentle broisther and protective mafother. 

Mind & Muscles

Daplotri? Dapoltri!


Long time ago, back in the time when some people believed that consciousness has nothing to do with neurotransmitters, people thought that to be an individual meant first to be aware of the thought of individuality, then to, having become conscious of that awareness, turn into an epitome of disinterest in whoever could happen to be on the same planet at the same time. Reaching that level of disconnectedness from whadeva & what not!, that particular individual would float in nothingness for a brief moment, only to, at once, be turned in reverse into something that only having been reconnected with everything else, reclaims an awareness of the consciousness reintegrated into a whole that becomes knowable only by virtue of the fact of reintegration.

Good story, Be(b)ra, my man!

It’s not a story, but history, P(u)rple Hortak!

All stories are history told before it died, having never existed to start with.

Yo, Hi kAtrina, my motherfucking self has a sense of hi/story being whadeva interpretation one can conjure up against one’s good self.

Get away both of you. Or either.

In the era of consciousness being a matter of no substance, but not no substance, to live meant to be in a ceaseless struggle, attempting to prove the claims about disconnectedness wrong. Thus, years were passing in a search for evidence that one is not a free-floating matter, not giving a shit about bloody fellow travelers, but, instead, living a life of a TanAcox-worshipper lathering one’s body in mud-dashed-honey crossed with mustard-based-marinade. While one is doing one’s best to make sure everybody and everything will be assured that disconnectedness is but an instant before the necessary re-connectedness, one almost starts speaking the language of the interregnum that to a sane mind   looks more like a scene from a detective story than a site from a life on a planet. The fact that to some minds it’s not striking is striking to some.

It certainly is, Be(b)ra!

One should not use the word certainty if its subtext is not unshaken, hI Katrina!

Hi Katrin(a) understands the notion of unshaken to be always already the subtext of the implied concept of unshakeability.

Cool, Purpl(e) (h)Ortak. Now, how does it help me understand the situation in which a person finds oneself  to be constantly thrown into the deserts of detective stories in which clues, proofs, evidence, and other shit can best be found in one’s persistent denial of reintegration and, instead, living in an indefatigable act of sabotaging any possibility of transcending the moment before consciousness becomes aware of its being re-stabilized?

Once there lived  people who spent days gazing at their toes. They lived in apartments in which plastic splinters, metal scraps, pebbles, and pieces of aluminum foil covered the floor the way some people nowadays use carpets. They never opened windows. Never wished to let air in. Never didn’t feel bad about the really bad smell saturating the space between the walls and the ceiling. They didn’t breathe, so they didn’t care. One wonders whether it was just a mask they were wearing and, in a way, the answer is yes, but not if one takes into account their slippage into a belief in the masks not being masks. Because they started wearing masks early on in their lives and didn’t know how to look each other in the eyes and not feel bad about not being decorated or whatever…Unlike them, there were some contemporaries who, despite the pervasive culture of decoration, liked to breathe. They knew about the toe-gazers and felt sorry if that oxy-insufficiency did bother the residents. But they chose to just keep breathing.

Like fuck! Like fuck!

Unlimited Flexibility of Muscles

Be(b)RA, my man, do you by any chance have an idea that would rescue me from the torment called a 

thought?

Which is?

Be(b)RA, molest yoself not with impossible endeavors, PLEASE!

Like, HI Katrin(a), if I kindly ask you to chill the fuck out while I’m trying to make some sense out of the ideational staleness surrounding me, surrounding you…just like everybody-fucking-else…would you do me a favor and lemmie talk to this cool guy whose presence is not something that decorates the everyday every day, huh?

Yo, P(u)rple Hort(a)k! But, hey—watch out—what you call torment might not even be a thought for somebody else, right?

But that’s precisely what I’m trying to be relieved from.

You, wha?!

Olrajt, Be(b)RA, don’t take it personally. I mean, please DO! But, hey, lemmie be more precise and prevent interpretational acrobatics detrimental for you, just as they are for me, just as they are, would, and will be for anybody fuckin else who cares to ask and think (perhaps even right) about the issues of burning importance for me right at this mafothefucking moment. As significant as the umbilical cord during the nine months of pregnancy—or the prenatal period, depending how one looks at it--and even more so once that period is over and a scalpel marks the first oxygen pang flooding the lungs with a task that from that moment on becomes the everyday, the yesterday, and ye mafotherfucking tomorrow.

Shoot, then.

Who?

Either.

A pair of sausages and then mustard and then a pan and then oil and then a fork and then a plate and then a knife and then a napkin and then the hands and then the fingers and then lifting and then movements and then gastrointestinal ceremonies and then salivating for more and then more and then more of the more and then saliva saliva saliva…ha…ha…fucking HA!

You wha?!

Like, P(u)rple Hortak is saying that the chief of the tribe moonzE conzA claims unalienable right to the remix of the history before it died after it never existed…ahem.

Two things, at least, to start with: There is a scientific law that says whoever was born on a Friday will marry a sailor and have a house in the first home of zodiaK.

Like WOW! But what the fuck does it do to my query?

Nothing. It only says that your mind  can be tormented if you understand it as a pile of muscles capable of stretching with a little help of blood being pumped into it.

I do not think of my mind as a primarily material thing.

Then chill the fuck out and don’t use the word thing to describe the denotatum as you just did.

Denotatum what is I cognize of have not.

Then get the fucking dictionary and have some fun time reading it imagining that it is a novel written by somebody’s granny while she was sailing the seven seas tripping herself to death by the imagery of a husband-sailor whose mind is not a thing, but not not thing. Nowhadamsayin…

Huh. I guess so.

Moreover, mind can be tormented  even if that torment for the flexibility of somebody else’s mind is but a cool breeze in the hair of a three year old while the little one busies oneself with a thought of a flight crassly confronting the reality of killing a long afternoon in the kindergarten swinging on a swing…

One may, but may not want to choose the definition of torment that would enable the flexibility of the muscles of the mind thereby providing one with the opportunity to see the world as a web whose nodes would be of the approximately following content:

Three years plus five glasses of voddy a day equals keeps whoever away. And then watching TV eight hours a day multiplied by the years one’s great granddad spent daily staring at his or her toe equals the number of slices of bread that a dinosaur can eat for breakfast on an average summer day when digestion is not the highlight of one’s existence. And then swine sport called jawdropping glass divided by the times a schoolgirl crosses the street on a Saturday when the weather is not so speactacularly perfect and parents are not at work equals the number of years one will spend during the span of fifty years playing tennis like an obnoxious child would deconstruct toys just for the sake of saying that his or her father’s computer is mightier than anybody’s laptop, notebook, nook, pook, fook, or fuckin RUK!

I choose not to choose. Me too.

Like fuck!

Dapoltri! Dapoltri!