I N T E R M I T T E N T
A N N I H I L A T I O N
Being Notes Toward (NON)Self Knowledge
"The intermittent annihilation of human faculties." Maldoror - Lautreamont.
This, then, now, my non-introduction.
That, more specifically, intermittent flashes, epiphanies, a plague upon formal knowledge. Otherwise, "Zenastics," riddles in an obscurity that is non-intentional, meaning being difficult to extract. Meaning should be impossible to extract.
Otherwise, anti-formata, a generative digestion. Otherwise, a room of single hands and silent clapping. Otherwise, masturbation - and the epiphany entailed. That is to say, the owl, the licking, the lollipop, and the last and the luscious whimper.
My ambiguities are swollen and stiff today. Aching for expression.
I need another newness, morning dew moist, I need a voice that is rabid. Mainly, though, I need to see Kristen Darch, Jesus; is she a stranger? Is this conversation with its pressuring depths a promise, a knock at the door? If I were her I would define myself other than doorway..
a bone ache now merges from my clampings. I have not lost her faice, that tincture to life at large.
Ten/dec/nine+nine.
Intermittent - ON, OFF, ON, OFF. Strobe, rhythm
organs stroked by subterranean vibrations
The blood that is pumped through the Umbilicus of Limbo.
Wisdom is the fluttering
Wake of the furious passion.
Words follow strung out of
fury's furry tail. Words
hang back and sink into
airy tinkling, semantic chime
of bells, definite, limpid.
But the roaring passing under -
the meat below the bridge -
the fucking sounds that run
under every conversation
the naked torso swelling
below the angel's innocuous clothes.
Nov 22, 1999.
...in...
Drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs.
Have you heard the sirens?
Do you hear them still?
I've been trying to drug myself with aesthetic.
I've met with some small success.
Cold the comfort emitted by the
sunken yellow crystals
cradled by my eyes.
Turned off sockets, waiting for something
essential to be stuffed inside them.
intoxication to counter oppressantia.
The use of the opium poppy becomes emblematic.
I am escaping into romantic subjectivity.
I am sinking deep into non-corporeal sex,
"
sex,sex,sex,sex,sex,sex,sex,sex,sex,sex,sex,sex,sex,sex.
" Correct!
In the smoke the bars become invisible?
In the smoke the bars do not exist?
Sweat; the leaves of love's
dream season. I like that.
That's nice.
(Nov 17/99) ...out....
Today,
A CATEGORICAL STATEMENT:
The most effective ART is
certainly invisible.
Invisible, that is, AS art and not AS nature.
This is of course true of the best propaganda.
Although the two are not identical, they are similar
in this respect.
So pass me an umbrella, cammo patches, some
smaller words, pass me some intentions and maybe
a television or two. As Jake Jankowski says so
enthusiastically, "Stick your head above the crowd
and be prepared to have it blown off."
Somebody, please, teach me how to duck.
Nov 08/99
Meantime, I mean much on the tip of the tongue, and I mean very little at the base (hidden somewhere back in the throat.) I attempt constantly to explain what I mean, in words and otherwise. And in general it is my feeling that I fail. I am obsessed with the concept of flowers, with the concept of dirt. My obsession leads me to miss, misunderstand or otherwise mangle the ACTUAL, PHYSICAL PHENOMENA that is associated with these terms. Somehow in my manipulation of polysyllables, my sporadically growing junkyard of utterances and characters, I manage to miss volume after volume of vital actuality. My use of the term "volume" in describing actuality clearly supports this fact. My understanding of the fact that I clearly fail to clearly understand fact further supports this fact. My composition is poisoned on some level by this lack of actual apprehension. So I attempt to replace this absent meaning with endless additive sculptures of speech, image, analogy, et cetera. In doing so I attempt to imply meaning. The implied meaning IS real, but real on a level separate from the actuality that initially inspired it.
Am I making any sense so far? Fine, no, I know. Have I at least managed to imply sense of some kind? Have I managed to allude to actuality? I hope so. I hope, so I haven't completely wasted my time with this project. Which is good, because my time is yours too, and I would hate to waste that as I'm sure there are important actuality you could be addressing with said time.
As my mother made me understand by frequent repetiton during my formative years, one must ask oneself (funny that one can speak of oneself, when one is inseparable from any number of selves) these important questions before any and all activities involving interaction with objects or actuality of any kind:
"Is it yours?" (Y/N)
"Is it a toy?" (Y/N)
If either or both of the above questions were answered negatively, "Then do not play with it." Although if either or both of the above were answered negatively, then perhaps we need to expand our definition of "toy." Allow me to quickly ask one more question -
Have I managed to allude to vital actuality yet? If yes, then talk on! Wrap your loving around my name! If no, then walk on, and don't insult me by looking back.
Oct 23/1999
The apparent inability of Mr. Peter Barrett to be swallowed by the flesh; the failure of the scent of fresh flowers to compel him. An interesting case. It would seem that Mr. Barrett is far from the only case of this (if you will) mutual indigestion (the parties, in this instance, being Mr. Barrett and life at large.)
Some sort of incompatibility. Envision a snake swallowing its own tail. Envision this very same snake with a profound case of lockjaw and elephantiasis of the posterior extremity.
The question arises whether this mutual indigestion is somehow positive or desirable. It does seem to offer liberation from the pain of attachment to life. At the same time, however, it detracts from a genuine affective-aesthetic appreciation of living.
In conclusion, Poor Peter, that Lucky Fool.
Oct 24 1999.