contiguous too

Contiguous: When blah refers to 2 and speaks of the identifiable and subjective present, then someone I can quote, desire and wish to quote, comes into play. I align ink upon paper, the dry memory of liquescent thought. Memories that I thought I had, I stack page upon page, and like some kind of farmer of text I round up these memories, these pages, these analytical cattle for milking and for slaughter / especially slaughter.

----- BUTCHERS WANTED -----
----- apply within -----

All encompassing symbol and its juxtapositions, sterile idents and brandings, colour coded consumption. Everyday I intend only to sip (if that) at this chalice, and everyday I drown in a conceptualism, that is as easy to excrete as ocular swallow visual. Processed waste, pure symbol, fragrant morsel dissected with knife and fork, cut, cut into palatable chunks and masticated in an exploration of the interior. Shit soiled teeth smile for the camera, tongue pressing corporeal clay across backs of molars, pressing pulped saliva striated excreta through incisors. Not a bad taste, though the surface is upped, washing across the voyeur with perhaps a little flotsam and jetsam: burning hearts, trinities’ et al, bob bobbing upon the emetic wash. She eviscerated, a coiling S / entrails / to leave he empty, a reduced form. S, the guts in this arbitrary performance of textual sophisms. Is this stomach sack worm, eye.e. this S, an Ubuist font? or perhaps capital for other words: Suck, Slag, Slap, and many more than these do its intestinal curves wind. But let us now disembowel these words, excavate their torsos: uck, lag, lap, this hollowed corpse, the part of the body parallel to the seat of the chair, doubled over, licked with tongue and then added to the small dog I find leaking from my pen. Pussy whipped lap dogs. This statement obliterates itself, the dog chasing the pussy equidistant, or rather distant enough for both to benefit beneath the wheels of a juggernaut and thus save me from subscribing. Let me simply say this: >> Left lane roadkill! <<

A litter of extant puppy dogs. Dead. Aesthetic pederasts lost in reverie, in longing and loss. White rabbits’ bloodstained pelt jammed down hole, its watch broken. Ironic zombies writhe within their restrictions, a morphological suitcase dripping text, key trigger catalyst long since lost. The suitcase, black plastic tat, trimmed and edged in peeling silvered plastic. Plastic. Plastic placed upon tiled floor, red tiles, blue grout, walls alternating blue-red. Cube. Hard minimal landscape seen through the one window --no glass, no frame - in a red wall. Red wall peephole looking out into a courtyard. Square. A statue of the interior erected at its centre, the individuals esoteric source of the subjective, of negation. All endeavours can be dismantled and defused, negated by referring to this source, this statuesque font of the subjective. And so we explore our own interior(s), a landscape that is difficult to negate, as the OTHER has no knowledge of it, or rather cannot apply subjective negation to an examination of the same. The tired shell and restrictive corporeal housing, the medium of the body is under scrutiny, attack and immolation. As advertized, the murder of the body by its owner.

The playstations of the cross, crucifixion of the body to be resurrected in the form of advertizing copy, muscle tone, spherical breasts, clean limbed and formalized divinity of standardized violence and beauty. Vase. Acolytes persecute the heretics of the pagan flesh. VR. The screen closes in upon the retina, ready to fuse. I believed I was here, and so until I could be sure I waited until I could see myself, see that I was here, rematerialized. Vase.

Coloured dirt on linen, dirty washing. That's what they do, established encumbered in caked clothing. Wanting. Wearing and eating it (a jumper baked in a cake, Father Ted, 24/4/98 and /9/2007), seen to be art, must be seen to be wearing auntie’s - BBC emphasis - gift. Scene. The scene closes in upon the body, its conduct, abilities and attitude, just as the screen closes in upon the retina. Compression. The scene seen upon the screen is one of oneself, a parody, a compressed site of event and reaction. Reaction only in the sense of audience participation, eye.e. limited. This compression of scene and screen can be seen in the location of corporate identity and branding: the qualifying tick of Nike, the exclusive dissemination of Hermes (wrecked burning car scream, Weekend, Jean-Luc Godard), the Red Bull of the Socialist Workers Student Society. The hoardings have gone up, compounding this emaciated manner of knowing oneself. Hive. Chemico-socio responses. E. Buzzy-b, honeycombed brains, dementia in the community, in the individual, hoardings surround, allowing for the easy isolation (demonization) of this compacted unit. Mendicant death.

Pederast child fuckers play to learn. Childhood a commodity like anything else has recently seen a rise in value, eye.e. within the arts and lifestyle choices/purchases of those with disposable income. As with any finite commodity, desirability or demand leads to scarcity and a rise in value - monetary and perceived. This scarcity, or lack of enough childhood to go round has led to the deprivation and brutalization of many children, especially those of the lower classes, who due to necessity - social and economic pressure - sell their childhood at an early age. Bourgeois aesthetic pederast gangs use this newly purchased commodity as a cover, a camouflage for their imbecility. After all, the petit-b has had a scary century, what with almost having to wear a necklace from ear to ear, and so has developed subtle and numerous forms of camouflage - methods of dissimulation - immersing its (looks down upon statue) body in mass-produced kitsch, the emblems and forms of - what it perceives as - proletarian media, commonalty art, low art. This, along with the waving of the red flags behind the comfortable liberal facade - which precludes action - is their most decadent of outrages, eye.e. the redesignation of kitsch as high, as ironic as an elite commodity for their own societal space. The Smurf holding a burger, centre stage upon my Grandmothers fireplace, would be, for the petit-b a scene of escape, just as painting is the scene to which I (looks up from courtyard to window above) escape. Although moving in different/opposed directions - one with guilty boots of concrete, the other inevitable, over the gates - it is towards the same objective, eye.e. the other. However, that art which comes about, comes about for those who are grease for the cogs, cogs being congealed and hardened lumps of grease. Dissolute animal fat, Pavellian groupies. Real beggars - as opposed to the hyper-real immersed in commonalty camouflage - get spat on, others, those with baguettes shoved up their arses, Guardians folded underarm and Marxist bullshit/Buddhism playing behind the aforementioned facade, receive a surplus of bureaucratic charities. Open hands can overflow if of the correct lineage, mouth and voice. The appropriation of football and methods of inebriation – Laddism. Although working class, I have no allusions to appropriate or seek dissimulation in the position of the Smurf (stoking the fire, not looking at the mantle piece). I am a football hooligan (throws stone at window), it is a malenky bit of the old ultra-violence I desire. I will throw coins at the goalkeeper, eventually invade the pitch, uproot the goalposts and piss on the grass. I don't seek order or coglikeness, merely the ecstatic moment.

Art is the ecstatic moment.

Information, capital virtualis. Works supported by prosthetic texts, artists cards and so on, provide good grazing for the gatherers, who like nothing more than to dance round the object / the objective / the artwork, collecting. Contacts / building contacts, in hope of... in hope of an appearance, to appear to be an artist, that is, to have one's name upon the prosthetic. To appear is ALL! The object, the exterior scene drowns in the dry rhetoric of card borne prose, of greasy cogs turning upon one anothers teeth / grinding societal machinations. The object is made subservient to the idea of the object, just as information is made subservient to the narrative of knowledge and fact. A commodity is best sold on the basis of its likeness, not of its difference / wilfulness. The object hunts to kill / to impale the viewer. The scene seeks to capture / ensnare the viewer. I suppose good grazing takes one's mind off capture and slaughter.

Donkey, rhino, blast, catalogue freak collection, pedantic narratives - distance, passive observance, Owen, Blake, et al - structures, England / Ishness, exclusive mundanities. Somehow, something, I feel, must be under (t)here, some species of freedom, forever tamed it seems by their histories of political and social surface / impassive narratives. I had always thought of myself as a nihilist, and now I am nothing / existence without essence. Outside, beyond the statue, the summer foliage whispers sibilant caresses, reassuring clean and cool sheets drawn across the inadequacies of my writing. Somehow I had wished to link myself, my desires, to that outside, bifurcate the sonorous decay. However, in this closing of the text, I, I deconstruct, write of writing, withdraw from the scene, for I too fear death, though bodies desire the sensation of clean blades drawn upon them, romance is obese and the mirror taunts: >> ...she was led into a room where a threesided mirror and, facing it, a fourth mirror on the opposite wall enabled, indeed obliged her to see her own image reflected. << [The Story of O, Pauline Reage.]

Kitsch, mass produced object and form, is, in its use within the field of art - I keep some cattle there - an invocation of American consumerism, and the production of domestic disposable product. Culture languishes in the wake of working class modes of consumption and desire // how ironic // attempting to make sense of, and to control the disposable and ephemeral qualities of this consumption. Could it be that the cogs need romance, to eke out some kind of existence in all they abhor / to hold basketballs in stasis, or impassively narrate a world of wrestling. Theory fucks over the object for the concept of the object. >> It is either under the influence of the narcotic draught, which we hear of in songs of all primitive men and peoples, or with the potent coming of spring penetrating all nature with joy, that these Dionysian emotions awake, which, as they intensify, cause the subjective (concept, (my insertion )) to vanish into complete self-forgetfulness (object, (my assertion)). << [The birth of Tragedy, Friedrich Nietzsche.]

Let us forget them, and their predictable Delphic prophecies.

>> Ancient or not, mythology can only have an historical foundation, for myth is a type of speech chosen by history: it cannot possibly evolve from the 'nature' of things. << [Myth Today, Roland Barthes.] To live, for art to be contiguous, free of those types of speech. To gain essence, to will oneself to be. An ineffable conflict struggles within me, I try to reason with what is of me, in the sonority of the foliage. If only I could break these marmoreal restrictions / 'il n'y a pas de hors-texte' / ...another language, the ecstatic moment, desire momentarily freed from its surroundings, assumed natures and imposed contexts, the fashions of type / blood / class, the miasma of eugenic expediencies: nation fucking state, national identity, ishness, eye.e. the absolution of desire, of self (unseen in the mirror 'I') in historical narrative and stereotype. It is a banal clergy that offers atonement for the sin of ecstatic realization, the realization of self beyond the stifling narratives. To not be conducive / nice / in relation to the narrated surface, its histories, its presets, is to become political / to act out. Nicety is about playing ones perceived role and archetype, in relation to presence and appearance. What manner of criminal, in the prison of consciousness?

>> …myth is a type of speech chosen by history… <<>> The Satanist does not hate himself, nor the gods he might chose, and has no desire to destroy himself or anything for which he stands! << [The Satanic Bible, Anton Szandor LaVey.]

Pluralism can only exist as an object (an aesthetic) caught in the impassive gaze of the petit-b. It is the abstracted aesthetic of the city, an impassive and distanced narration of blackness, class, poverty, eye.e. an observation of differences, without having to live them / live amongst them.

Criminality / >> The best and highest that men can acquire they must obtain by crime… <<, still working off The birth of Tragedy, Friedrich Nietzsche, here / whether in the field of intellectualism or social activity is to aspire / to reach out, attempt to grasp oneself? Hence, culture, petit-b being, always follows – is adapted and changed - in the wake of working class consumption. However, this is not to say that petit-b mannerisms provide objectives to aspire to, and that criminality is the defacement or illegal acquisition of these mannerisms and properties. Even if this is true, for me it is more, it is an attempt to claim histories / to define a narrative in the immediate surface of the political and social. And here I find the fulcrum of my own argument, one made ugly by thirty years of fashion. Blasphemy reinforces the church, that is, until it becomes the church!

Birth and death, the inbred binary of narrative expectation, eye.e. of beginning and end is in a state of inextricable decay and with it our mythical being, the Dionysian ecstasy of emergence and the Apollonian line in the sand, that which we cannot know, and can only know when it is too late has seen its death – in Delphic prophecy – and so tries to establish itself in the language of technological narrative and preset variables. We in turn offer ourselves up, in the form of proximal personae, but these personae are merely recordings, dead histories. To the dead gods we give our pasts, our histories. Narrative is compiled behind us, providing the gatherers / the cattle with a hope of appearance. It is the science fiction of hard fact that has eroded the state of mythical being and the traditional dualities. Screen state, private inert state, cryogenics, frozen, held in stasis, the will to be and to be again / no longer a conflict of existence and essence, of likeness and will, but of how many essences, how to be today, and then, tomorrow. A few days later: Then again. I feel today that there still is a conflict of existence and essence, or rather a pluralization of that conflict / aesthetic / archetypes.

>> I found it hard to think of a time when there was no road there because the trees and the tall hills and the fine views of bogland had been arranged by wise hands for the pleasing picture they made when looked at from the road. Without a road to have them looked at from they would have a somewhat aimless if not a futile aspect. << [The Third Policeman – Flann O’ Brien.] I am destination and predestination, the road is defunct, you can, however, connect with me / connect directly, without the romance / the road and its narration of the landscape it cuts through. Connected. A coincidence of connections, immediacy – compressed scene and screen - which replaces the spatial. Spatial time diminishes, crowded out by the forced sequenciallity of received connection / screen upon screen, scene upon scene, narrative cliché enfolds.

Knifes

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