Writing is a dream that chases its own reality into the abyss of the imagination...

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…  

Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea...

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 à 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….

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…