The Undead…
The
Undead would come out of the dark, towards the pulsating flesh, to the pounding
vibes behind the dirty soot covered walls…her summer danced drenched flesh…She
would be drawn to the cool hypnotic feel of death, in half closed eyes as if
lost in a dream within a dream, lost in the storms waves of illegal chemistry
whispering twilight desires as if alive....a caress so cold it burns frost
across the sweaty grain of her quivering flesh...against the dirty wall behind
she would succumb... as is often the case by summer night hunt like these, in
the sweltering still city air...Some girls want the edge of the night, the
fallen abyss of dark wonders kissed by the dead, the Undead burning cold her
lips, as she quivers unvoiced spasms...the kiss of frozen lips tasting her
salty flavors in the thirst of her helpless throes, the youthful intoxicating
softness, that very essence of the Undead hunt in all his desperate
nights…Small droplets of blood sucking it as mother to child, the red milk of
life and fire embrace…a gentle harsh bite...the tender flesh, driving the flesh
mad with kaleidoscopic desire....irritating the softness into disgorged
life…Animalistic urges of contemplation and savagery reflected through neon
lights in the dead of the night; the world of flesh mortified to an impossible
transcendence...maddening with the urge of immanent annihilation. Wanting to
consummate the naked touch of death for her flesh…surrendering over the edge of the world that she befalls...perfumes of
wisdom, whiffs of tactile drunkenness. Playing shadow games with her naked
figure, for the Undead. …What she
recalls if alive, is the real of mere reflections from other worlds, shadows
from other suns, like the extraterrestrial ants and insects we kill as we walk.
A few stoned workers smoking dead lungs, plastic mobile heads tweaking jingled
sounds in the shimmering distance of the wavering night, awaiting the Undead
that she beckons with the hidden dreams of oblivion...
She wants to let go.
She walks bare foot downtown, felling within the naked souls of her feet, the
dirt, the blood, the drugs, the anger, and the violence in the stone underneath
and around; psychic traces inscribed in the atmosphere of places and side
streets, disembodied qualias embodied out of their "subjective"
"owners": impersonal qualias enlarged to the urban stone, to the
urban cosmos. Not psychoanalysis but urban cosmology: body regained in the
decay of the urban night. The unread psychic character of Nature can be found
anywhere, even on urban soil….
Chasing the Dragon...
The rain was beating
hard on the high class rise apartment pane windows, fountains of water that
gave a mellow kaleidoscopic glow to the interior yellowish light with the
ultra-precision searchlights buzzing everywhere around the room.
It is strange how "it" all changes, the atmosphere, he thought…shadows linger longer, eyes accentuate
more, building a shadow play of good and evil, a phantasmagoria of shadows…he
doubted whether his "colleagues" had noticed the change, or noticed
anything for that matter...
"Damn
global worming" George squirmed ,,as he looked out of one of the pane
windows at the washed darkness outside, puffing on his cigarette as if it was
pure life to a fly…
Dan turned around and shouted across the room,
breaking the searching silence into fragments of shattered glass…
- yooh George, what's
up with your face, you look kind of strange, seen a ghost?
Dan laughed out loud
almost to hysterics, George felt the stinging echoes even after it they receded
into the distance…the problem is that it
was not funny, fucking, morons everywhere, working with these people what a
fucking bore…
- "Nothing Dan,
just being attentive to details"…"as always"…he muttered…
George was looking at
the girl's almost naked body on the bed…The body on the bed was ghostly indeed,
all the more ironic that the girl was ostensibly Gothic, and he knew one or two
thing about Goths, they liked death, or claimed to like death, at least the
simulacrum of deaths' ways…is it another
case of art imitating life or death imitating life?...
Porcelain skin,
purple lips, black eye line all the mimicry of death now finally dead and
buried...
- Drug overdose? Dan remarked as his
gloved hands searched through various folds on the bed until to his surprised
grin he found the folds to the gateways to hell....
Amy my light...
Back against the
wall, the rain dancing down her leathers, rivulets that dazzle closed eyes. Wet,
likes being wet and out on the streets when every other whore is either giving
mind or junked out of her head. Likes it and feels anxious....
Framed by the car
window, a face ghostly appears out of the winding down frame, beautiful
geometric oval eyes making her looks a ritual. Her eyes shine with swirling
infinitesimals of purple and silver; magnetic beacons that guide her as she
steps towards her. The inside of the car is severely obscured. Darkness warm, a
place to hide from the miserable drizzle that lands ovals drops on leather…
She slides back from
the window, pushing her body along the squeaky clean leather seat. The door is
open to the enticing warmth. She is enveloped by warmth, perfumed expensively.
Even the whores owned by the meanest pimps are safely out of the way.
A nice inviting
snatch of exquisite domestication, there is no way she can resist. One moment
she is there, impossibly high heels standing the corner, a leather clad slut
and the next, she's safely cosy, a passenger of the night.
She is pressed back
into the soft leather seat by the sudden acceleration, I let myself go.
Breathing in that expensive scent which perfumes her body, an aura that wraps
her and traps me. She is beside me, laughing softly, happy that I am with her.
Soft hands, long painted nails manicured with geometric precision, her warm
fingers stroking Amy's arm into oblivion for our delight...
The madman is back…
"In the present state of society, happiness
is only possible for artists and thieves".
(Oscar Wilde)
The
Madman: Haven’t you heard of the madman who on a bright morning descended the
hills of Hollywood, who ran from studio to studio, with a mere lantern in pure
daily light, announcing to those gathered, “I seek reality!”, “I seek
reality!”, causing a great deal of scorn if not amusement from those present
who believed in their good work of the real:
Why,
have you lost your TV? said one. Have all your remote controls been gobbled,
said another, are you afraid of us? We can offer you the best voyages money can
buy, you can emigrate wherever you want…the people all laughed mockingly…
The
madman dangled his lighten into their faces and transfused them with an insane
glance “where has reality gone?” he cried “Reality is dead!”, “we have killed
it you and I!” We are all its murderers!”
But how is this possible? How
were we able to simulate everything into existence? Who gave us the celluloid to wipe the real
clean? Who gave us the power to set the sky ablaze to the color of television, tuned
to the static of a dead channel? Where
are we to go from now, when there is no sun or moon to the set the horizon? Is
there still real-life below and above? Don’t we like being in lost in the fun-house?
Isn’t it getting lighter and lighter in the neon-lasers emptiness of our days
and nights? Will we not wake up and taste the real? or has it been lost
forever? Don’t we still hear the happy grave-diggers burying reality, day by
day? and even though we are smiley content in our screen reflections, don’t we
secretly smell the secular putrefaction – for even the real slowly putrefies!
The real is dead! and we have killed it!
Who will wake us from our flat screen mirages, we the most murderous of
all murderers?
Maximal fragments for a New
World...
Nobody can achieve
anything, but everybody can.
Science is the theory
of everything and the meaning of nothing.
Philosophy
is the only human sickness whose homeopathic remedy is itself.
Imagination is not
escapism but the unbounded jubilation of the five senses.
All twilights are
prayers of forgiveness before the fall of night and day.
Consciousness is a
continuum that nose no limits except the mind of language.
Language is a cage
that communicates itself through the bars of letters that make up the spaces of
our cells that we call words and phrases.
We do not see
reality, the objects of reality, but rather see words as objects acting spaces
for reality.
Language is a
parasitical pattern of extraterrestrial life overflowing alien semantics,
creating chemicals structures called humanity out of mere animals. Language is
the light of the stars passing us by.
Acts of love are
divine whispers across the flesh of the beloved; the flesh and breath of hidden
lore, unbeknown to our pornographic minds.
The Angel of history
flaps her wings sideways. Our prophets are neither religious nor economists, but
saints from nowhere but the inside of everything else: "the yet unnamable glimmer beyond the
closure" of metaphysics.
…where could we say
“I love you” without four-thousand movies gashing in an instant, were could we
could live without the celluloid stereotypes living us, by preempting all the
moves for us? What are the cinemas and screens
of our spectacle lives if not the graves our reality transfixing us into
oblivion that lives parasite bytes? Aliens are among us and they inhabit
our screens for us…
we
breath irony, we buy irony, we fuck irony, we dream irony, we even get stoned
on irony...help! there is no escape, no exit beyond the infinite regress of
ironic irony within ironies…there must be a serious outside, apart from death
and total war that is…that would surely give a necessary kick to boot us out of
the spectacle…the real at last!…maybe not, since we have even ruined war…
Like
all true avant-garde esthetes: Futurists, Dadaists, Surrealists and
Situationists, we dream of setting alight the whole fucking mediated octopus
ablaze: burn the mediation down, cinemas, video-recorders, destroy down
(liberate life from the Alcatraz high security prisons of media) go to a Boom
festival and listen to silence on your screen (liberate music from the chords
of mediated banality) and above take loads of drugs since it is the only real
experience they haven’t commoditized yet, it only a matter of time until
capitalism’ last remnants of Calvinism” is overcome into oblivion….
Spirit ?
Spiral within the
forms of lines and circles that its breath takes away for which all illuminated
movement testifies. For which the form of a Spiral selects unknown whispers in
the cosmic wilderness. Spirit is the spiral of the lines and circles that our
matter provides. The spiral is a circle within a circle hollowing its material
host from within, no doubt. We are animals in a spurious simulation of a human
kind like fireworks unleashed in the cold light of a winter day: the ambiguity
of the double-bind of being alive, time and matter crashes us to life and
death, and death again, and maybe Spirit again like resurrection on judgement day;
for spring and winter beckons us beyond the summer day of an orange lit sky.
Spirit is everywhere
and nowhere. Spirit may be Illusionary a mere refuge for the weak and poor to
hope and exult, but it is an illusion ever repeated in all classes and all ages,
including traders of all sorts; it smells
like teen spirit indeed...
Spirit within a cheesy
pop song that turns on outside itself, a child like smile on the verge of orgasm,
an orgasm against her professional will in a dollar ridden porn movie, when she
was so sure that she was dollars and nothing else for the time of a video
shoot.... Spirit may be just a kiss and a caress amidst the material searching of
occluded perversions and broken pleasures, only dogma you may say.
A certain Gnostic
inspiration that hovers over our postmodern representation of the world in
which the individuated forms we inhabit from the natural to the social are
viewed as inhibitors of (aesthetical) energy and (ethical) openness. The forms
we inhabit and sometimes create are not created in the image of the good, the
just or the divine, the world has not been created in the image of a divine
spark; necessity itself that laughs our freedom into the frozen flames of hell
that we otherwise call our home, for Spirit only knows.
The forms we inhabit
are the necessary sacrifice of Spirit for the sake of order and survival. And
yet creation and resistance are the only ways of Spirit, a paradox that the
divine only knows how to bear.
The way of asceticism
is to purify the created by recreating the forms that we contingently and
necessarily inhabit, the aim of creation is to “decreate” (as Simone Weil foretells us) from within.
By the material
opportunism of the world we practice our cynic ironies: i.e. Slavoj Zizek for a
succinct example of the modern laughable scholar bound by Gnostic hatred of the
world that illuminates teen flesh within dreams of fire over impeccable Wall
Street.
Even in the ever
receding chiaro scuro character of
material reality, the shadowy nature of shifting matter, we must paradoxically
seek to grasp the non-conceptual even when we all have, as means of
expression, are mere concepts or ideograms. One must reject Wittgenstein's
maxim that "Whereof one cannot
speak, thereof must one be silent" the task of life, like art, if it
is anything, is almost the opposite of Wittgenstein’s famous dictum: the effort
to express the inexpressible, the non conceptual and the non-identical, even
though our means of expression are precisely that, the conceptual, our very
ordinary language, and therefore the identical (with a few cracks here and there).
The attempt to grasp
in thought that which is other than thought is a perpetual paradox that is
fraught, from the very start of any discourse, with a profound failure of
communicative access, Spirit is attempt and nothing else for excess of access.
As
the poet T.S. Eliot express somewhat the dilemma of Spirit:
"Between the idea/and the reality/between the
motion/and the act/falls the shadow " falls the matter….
That
shadow, is the real, where the long darkness of being originates and explicates
all matter, Samuel Beckett: "There
is no return game between a man and his stars" or man and his wallet;
and perhaps one wanders what stars those sitting on Wall Street are looking at,
if any, by the artificial light that only dollars signs can fuel. Those pinup
points know as the fires of Spirit in the sky above?
We causally,
technically and objectively do not exist...
The objective causal
nexus is all...we technically should not be here…the subjectivity that does not
exist lights the world into existence. Why the inner light that illuminates the
stage, why do we fell to be actors involved in the awareness of a runaway
script?
Like Ghosts in the
Machine...our psychic states or sensations are ghostly and elusive...the
overall feeling that life is but a dream in a dream, is no doubt due, to fact
there is nothing objectively going on in subjectivity, the screens of our
reality are in objective fact, firing blanks, the cinema of our mind are
projections without objects…there is nothing going on out there except random
being.
We are simulacrums
without a joined reference. Our signs and semantics-senses are surfaces that
barely register in the objective depths of the world: a few scattered droplets on a translucent
dawn, dew drops without a sun to illuminate them, like a stage without a
backstage, there is only surface without
depths…
The
Shadows of Capital…Are we too exhausted to seek the new? All the permutations
have run their course, all avant-garde experimentalism drowned in the self-indulgent
boredom of a pile of bricks; it all ends as it started, dust to dust. We are
too infinitely aware of the closure of metaphysics. The metaphysical chess board has always been there haunting every move
like ghost for a being. Even though the moves on the surface appear
to differ, the underlying currents are the same: repeating themselves and to
repeat themselves until no end, endings in a circle of exhaustion.
Everything is a
difference in the hands of the permanent identical, identity that needs its
difference, a bit of asymmetry governed by symmetry to spice things up.
Capitalism is Hegelian, the phases of its phenomenology are the simultaneous
schizoids moves of capital: rebellion, individualism, difference, morality,
community, religion, Dionysus, contingency, fashion, ecstasy, sex, you can have
it all since it is all equalized in the Spirit of the market for the greater
Good that is now called the crisis?
The
LOADED UNIVERSE that sets the DICE of GOD rolling begs the question of man into
the opening of being…
The reflections of
our consciousness join us to a world we cannot consciously touch …from a night
life made of neon signs, we bind the turmoil chaos that rushes our life to
sudden orders of despair…
Le frisson is not so much from
the sexual acts perceived or perpetrated, but from the varnished seductions of
the surface…
Hegel’s whole
dialectics of Spirit is based on the ruses of history, but maybe History is
neither a ruse, God hidden under the appearances of tragedy, nor canned
laughter for aliens, but rather, History is irony, with a smile of wonder for
the spilled blood of the other.
To exhaust life from
the inside, chemically, without the boring part of actually having an object,
an intentional direction, no polarity: love, hate, lust, horror, and melancholy
- in their purity. Rimbaud’s call for
chemistry without intention: through a "long, immense and rational derangement of all the senses"
("Les lettres du Voyant" - "The Letters of the Seer"). Since all that can be experience, has been experienced
in the virtual ways of the mind, why bother with the world if you have words? As Derrida
would say, in more apt style: “bomb the
fucking place, from within at least, keep the architecture, bomb the content”,
(from “deconstruction for dummies”).
TAZ – Temporary autonomous Zones vs. Presence...
One destratification
that emerged with the beginning of electronic dance music was its
impersonality, their was no face to speak of, “no more rock stars”, just music, was the motto...of course, it soon
restratified itself, nobody can take the absence of presence for too long. The image of oblivion has to be there to
ground the presence, to give security and fashion to the object; nobody wants
to live without guarantees, the seal of approval must be bought...the day when
the music died ...back to square one....spirit back to matter, business as
usual...
The main avant-garde
dreams of Futurist, Dadaist, Surrealist and Situationist were no different in
aim or design: collage, mixing, sampling, plagiarism, the cultivation of
illogical representations and irrational drives, was all there before the MTV
generation and Pop reared their ugly heads...which of course, is a problem for
capitalism, a product without a face or recognizable image does not sell; if
all is art, how do you create the pseudo scarcity that will bring in the millions,
nobody wants to buy what everybody is buying (and yet they do), how cheap, how
vulgar that would be, they do not want to belong to a club that would have
themselves as members, they want to buy a rare identity, select and different
from the common elsewhere. The irony, that Adorno would no doubt appreciate, is
that popular culture, does not want be popular, does not want the popular, but
wants to be select, exclusive and above all, elitist..., keep it real, keep it
street creed etc... this simlulated syndrome is replayed on all levels of the
kids psyche...All modes of presence, as Derrida would say, that recuperate all
in one safe homogenous identity...Capitalisms needs presence, identities, as
much as it dissolves them into non-presences (which one could argue, is only a
temporary measure for ever tighter presences)...
A
rock multiplicity is different from a techno multiplicity: a rock multiplicity
is all directed in the same light, at the same: the big rich egos strutting on
stages while everyone passively consumes. The trance multiplicity is different
in that they're looking at each other...
Music's back in the
hands of the People now, back to life, since it is not representational
anymore, there is no difference between the music, the chemical and the you...
a battery of frenzied strobe lights in A trance-dance. Fueled by
MDMA dancers staggered outfits of intensity, after eight or ten hours
overwhelming changed sensory dissolutions to dawn in a changed city...
The space was a
suburban complex of factories: an architectural structure was a touchable
vision in between Escher, Bauhaus and a Bosch; really asymmetrical in grey
composition and articulated with labyrinthine perspectives the freedom of
getting lost theory materialized in chaotic non-place under time 00:00. - 2
hours to build it up and let it work out. its screams of freedom one beast
thousands of mental fires. out of control energy, was love of freedom enhancing
passion for one-together expression dark-beats, low frequencies, no straight
beat, full cognitive fields of experimentation the ears flowed the massacre of
cultural stereotypes and social repression disappeared as forms full of nothing
we were there to stay and live new forms of anatomy, eating the hypes of material
world, no future no past, we are here to destroy. Cinetic harmony riding
creative attitude to annihilate balance and order concrete, skin, steel,
thoughts, gas, generator, sound-system, all in one-one in all. The TAZ
lasted two days and vanished somewhere else...
The Master of Suspicion / the Pornopticon...
“The notion that we have a sexual nature is itself a product of those
modes of knowledge designed to make us objects of control. Our acceptance that we have such a nature
makes us an object of such control. For now we have to find it; and set our
lives to right by it. And finding it
requires the ‘help” of experts, it requires that we put ourselves in their care”.
(Foucault).
The great thing about
truth and its “rational” praxis, is that it requires experts, they know best
because they have what you don’t have i.e. knowledge and truth...After
Foucault, there is no looking at the so called neutral objectivity of the
sociologist, psychologist, and other IQ testings...with an innocent eye. You
can almost see in their disinterested eyes of objectivity, the avid fires of
power and libidinal perversions firing up their ocular orbits with succulent
images of bondage, chains, and whipped bodies...the “panopticon” as the
pornographic gaze.
Foucault perversely
portrayed the encounter between scientist and non-scientist - in the libidinal
spaces of the social-sciences of the nineteenth century (criminologists, social
workers, urbanist, sexologists and psychologists etc.). In which pleasure games
of knowledge and truth took place in secret locations, where both the subject
of science and the object, libidinally enjoyed their scrutiny, their
measurement, their disclosure of every detail of their psyche and body: “l’angoisse a répondre aux questions et les
délices a se sentir interprété »…the "scientific" hermeneutics of psyche as
eroticism…
A sadomasochistic
relation of divine ecstasy between knower and known, in the space of
objectivity...Bubbling beneath the western Freudian scientia sexualis is the eastern ars erotica...
Always power, always war
by other means. Soul as conquest territory. The penetrative drive of conquest
is the same, virgin lands and bodies, and the secret forbidden pleasures that are always enacted
by humans on other humans. Only power can deliver the goods, that no god, no
knowledge, no hedonism can ever deliver...or so it seems....
The Kairos of Life, neither this
nor that nor in between, but on the edge...
“The True is the Bacchanalian revel in which no member is not drunk”.
(Hegel, “Preface
to the Phenomenology of Spirit”)
On the edge of chaos,
this is where things spiritually or creatively happen: love, eroticism, satori,
the delicate pain-pleasure balances of S&M rituals, Foucault’s’
“Heterotopias”, Hakim Beys’ TAZ, Deleuze’s “autonomous zones” etc...getting it
right or wrong is almost a matter of chance, but not quite: the
religious-philosophical paradoxes of Zen willing non-willing, Kant’s aesthetic
of purpose without purposiveness, Bataille’s “impossible” principle of
sovereign expenditure without the servility of goal, Nietzsche’s Dionysian
aesthetic, Bergson’s multiple crisscrossing durations, Levinas’ encounter with
the alterity of the other, Vladimir Jankélévitch’s “almost nothings” Derrida’s
deconstructive différance etc…always those moments that obey
neither the impossible choice between order and chaos, nor the unworkable
sublating dialectics of order and chaos: in between being and becoming there is
no limit. The limit that differentiates the one order from the other, from
chaos and order, from sameness and alterity, from identity and difference,
etc…in between the two orders, there is no limit (that differentiates the
orders), It is not a middle limit, it is not a question of the (fake) harmony
and proportion of all being/order, or symmetry of all things, but a sundering
dissymmetry in all things, always in
the shadow of the shattering of…there is no other spiritual/creative movement
workable or available…it is maybe not much, it certainly not the Hegelian absolute
with its dialectical consistencies; an “almost nothing” as Vladimir
Jankélévitch would say, a mere evanishing spark in the opaque order of being
and psychic life, but it is all we got, it is all that we can honestly think
and hope for, a limit appears…
It is not a question
of harmoniously resting on the vein sundering marble orders, but always to the
left of the other, always on the edge of death (not life) always on the edge of
becoming (not being), on the edge of chaos, (not order). Neither abyss nor plane, but the edge of the
abyss, neither Apollo nor Dionysus, nor the middle of the two, but on the edge
of the Dionysian, on the edge of chaos…
…How we always miss
the point, the limit, of the vanishing opaque surface nowhere to be seen but
here: - too much in the determinism of the past order, too much in the
amorphous virtual vacuity of the future order, too much in the identity order
of the present, too much seeking an unworkable mean and middle of the neither
this nor of that; but rather, always towards the middle left of the that
(order) and this (chaos)…such is the principle of all grand politics, and
surprisingly enough, it is not the third way, nor the centre right or centre
left, but the middle left on the edge of chaos: such is the ideal limit, in
both vertical and horizontal direction, that splits and discordinates the
asymptomatic field of life and beauty, the pristine dawn of new worlds….
Such is the
aesthetical-ethical life of the intercede, where all that life can give, gives;
where the peaks of life reach their peaks… always away from dialectical
polarities, always by jumping in the middle, then to the left of the middle,
such is the aesthetics of life, where life flourishing with all its potential
transgressions, and sublime intoxications - the aesthetics of life sparkles
bright in all its ultraviolet shadows beyond the grave …
Riding the Waves of Titan...
“One never commences; one never has a tabula
rasa; one slips in, enters in the middle; one takes up or lays down rhythms”.
(Deleuze). There is always a network of presuppositions, a context to
everything we do, live and create, we never start from scratch, we are
constructed and reconstructed from the start: Heidegger’s “being-in-the-word” Derrida’s “there
is nothing outside the text” Wittgenstein’s “forms of life” etc...All such philosophical moves (in complete
opposite to the philosophical virgins of the Cartesian, Hegelian, and
Husserlian foundationistic enterprise) attest to an in/finite prior:
structural, existential, and historical. There is always a context, a network
of infinity that we as subject-activists are always already folded into...
“It is never the beginning or the end which
are interesting; the beginning and end are points. What is interesting is the
middle”. (Deleuze)
We
know the beginning and the end already; it is set, nothingness to nothingness.
Birth and death are two sides of the same life coin, but there is still a
dimension between the two surfaces, however infinitesimally small - in between
the two sides, there is leverage for something to happen. This is why it is
always “off” the middle that one searches; for the world is perpetually
starting and ending at every point, and there is no life, no beauty, no spirit,
in such deluded searches for closures and origin....
Like
a surfer, it is always a question of inserting oneself into an already existing
movement, and like judo, one uses strength against itself. Glide, fall and
slip, but never posses or control: one’s so called finite activity is always
against an infinite multifarious background of a sublime passivity:
“There's no longer an origin as starting
point, but a sort of putting‑into‑orbit. The key thing is how to get taken up
in the motion of a big wave, a column of rising air, to get into something
instead of being the origin of an effort”. (Deleuze)
With
(Saturn’s moon) Titan’s weak gravity, its waves may be seven times as large as
those on earth, Big-wave riding to the extreme, to the ultimate limit, the
biggest wave could be 2000 meters high, icy cold crispy tips; beyond measure,
and made of liquid metal, on metal seas, and wave layers made of hydrogen.. On
Titan, Mercury seas, sloping waves, not liquid water, but liquid methane, or
liquid metal are the elements not to control, to slip on…Atmosphere of pure
oxygen density reaching levels of dark intensities, storms creating waves that
of such violence that no matter could survive but surfing high, on the crest,
riding the unfathomable violence...
One
can only dream to surf, to be able to “attune” with such raw violence, such
cosmic energy…Like Kant and Lyotard’s aesthetics of the sublime, it is far too
immense than anything we could rationally comprehend, or represent, and it
could destroy us in flick of a second, at any moment, and yet “it” is there,
even though, the “object” is unrepresentable by its very immensity, we still
struggle to attune or touch with mind and body, what is beyond all rational
faculties…so it is a question of insertion, slippage and subtle touch - it is thus, in this very vulnerability, in an
impossibility that we sensually touch the sublime…for it not a question of
possession, control or defeat, but a surf on the crispy waves of all immensity
sublime sublimity…to surf on the waves of the sea infinite…
Epiphanies or not …
In another novel
before Ulysses, Stephen Hero, James Joyce describes the experience as an epiphany,
`a sudden spiritual manifestation... the
most delicate and evanescent of moments' (Joyce, 1956).
A
walk of the streets, and pass through: hundreds of people whose fleshy
kaleidoscopes abide. Then within a twist of kaleidoscope, then something
catches the eye: a dimple speckled with freckles for a cheek, a tight leather
miniskirt which does not quite adjust. A tip of a ring on the punctured nipple
pinching the cotton fabric…rust-red hair...
These
are all signs of a spiritual clandestine disorder of the economy, uniformed in
our coded crowds...
A walk of the urban
streets, and pass through the urban boredom: hundreds of events whose economic
equivalent are interchangeable. Then a twist of kaleidoscope, something catches
the eye. A delicate gesture between two hands. A coiled reptile inking a pale
ivory skin....
“the ecstasy of the gem like flame”.
As
André Breton said in Nadja : « Chaque
nuit, je laissais grande ouverte la porte de la chambre que j'occupais Ã
l'hôtel dans l'espoir de m'éveiller enfin au côté d'une compagne que je n'eusse
pas choisie ».
Likewise beauty would wait with the door slightly ajar …blindfolded wearing nothing else… maybe just a touch, a caress seeking the tactile density of infinity. One would hover in a halo of arrested excitement, a trembling anticipation never reaching…contemplating pure desire itself - such sovereign "non-achievement” (the meaning of eroticism or the “sacred” for Georges Bataille). Eroticism is abyss, a wound…a void within…For Bataille eroticism or “authentic communication” (i.e. sovereign communication) between two human beings can only be enacted through transgression: exterior norms (social, taboos etc..) and interior limits (sundering intimacy to the core).The daily masks of inhibitions may be useful and morally sound to function in the profane world of our daily life - but we seek oblique otherness, alterity, the sacred: “the best things in life are free”… without economy - i.e. prostitution, pornography, neurosis etc…
The reality of eroticism like most things in the spirit of “non-economic life” (“if there is such a thing” as Derrida would say) is hard to achieve…maybe even illusionary… and yet, while the probabilities are extremely low, maximum entropy/failure/boredom/delusion is the likely economic outcome, a singularity could emerge…an illogical break in the universal entropic laws of existence…a mirage in the desert ?…a twilight of the idols…?
I turn up at the hotel, the door is slightly ajar as specified… yes I seek the anticipation… with trembling hands I approach… and of course, a pair of hairy legs in drag is what I get… a cross between a Francis Bacon painting and Monty Python’s John Cleese…such is life.. entropy always sets in...on the other hand, just maybe…maybe next time….
Likewise beauty would wait with the door slightly ajar …blindfolded wearing nothing else… maybe just a touch, a caress seeking the tactile density of infinity. One would hover in a halo of arrested excitement, a trembling anticipation never reaching…contemplating pure desire itself - such sovereign "non-achievement” (the meaning of eroticism or the “sacred” for Georges Bataille). Eroticism is abyss, a wound…a void within…For Bataille eroticism or “authentic communication” (i.e. sovereign communication) between two human beings can only be enacted through transgression: exterior norms (social, taboos etc..) and interior limits (sundering intimacy to the core).The daily masks of inhibitions may be useful and morally sound to function in the profane world of our daily life - but we seek oblique otherness, alterity, the sacred: “the best things in life are free”… without economy - i.e. prostitution, pornography, neurosis etc…
The reality of eroticism like most things in the spirit of “non-economic life” (“if there is such a thing” as Derrida would say) is hard to achieve…maybe even illusionary… and yet, while the probabilities are extremely low, maximum entropy/failure/boredom/delusion is the likely economic outcome, a singularity could emerge…an illogical break in the universal entropic laws of existence…a mirage in the desert ?…a twilight of the idols…?
I turn up at the hotel, the door is slightly ajar as specified… yes I seek the anticipation… with trembling hands I approach… and of course, a pair of hairy legs in drag is what I get… a cross between a Francis Bacon painting and Monty Python’s John Cleese…such is life.. entropy always sets in...on the other hand, just maybe…maybe next time….
Forever Forsaken...
It eyes glazed over,
in a cyber world of rotting meat. It was born into a new race of post-humans in
the techno-void of distant neon; where the horizon is always ultraviolet,
rotten by fashion, DVDs and click on advertisements; the gradual cellular
putrification of spirit and mind was gaining ground. It was caught on runaway
JavaScript, drinking Java to keep the void away, the HTML code of its life was
not clean, scripted to a higher precision, its scripts were not without
vulnerabilities, patched and updated, it could not keep the real away anymore…
Eyes glazed over in a
cyber world of rotting meat. Born into a new race of post-humans within the techno-void
of distant neon, where the horizon is always ultraviolet. Rotten by fashion,
DVD discs and click on advertisements, the gradual cellular putrification of
spirit and mind was gaining ground…caught on runaway JavaScript. Java to keep
the void away; the HTML code of her life was not clean. All her scripts were
vulnerabilities. Dark eyes scanned the command lines seeking possible
exploitations. Patched and updated, she could not keep the real away anymore.
The Sky and moon tuned to a dead Channel…a phantasmal aura stalks its victims
whenever, they feel utterly alone…runaway scripts voiding Eros
Perched like arboreal
creatures high up in the cityscapes of barbwire and steel, naked in the heat,
pale otherworldly forms drift in the shafts of a twilight sun…one lingers when
all else has faded…shadowy figural figures in clouds of steam; in the heat of
the summer, nothing seems real…a deep night, when words and world fade black,
when things and people come alive with otherworldly desires. The turmoil of chaos
binds us to the rush of life, forever forsaken...
Perched like arboreal
creatures high up in the cityscapes of barbwire and steel, naked in the heat,
pale otherworldly forms drift in the shafts of a crepuscular sun…one lingers
when all else has faded…shadowy figural figures made of steam. In the heat of
the summer, nothing seems real; a deep night, when words and work fades black,
when things and people come alive with otherworldly desires. On the high - we
seek our lovers flesh as hard, cold, and waxed as marble; “extended on marble
surfaces” in which eroticism becomes pure abstraction ritualized to
infinity…
