Full Circle

T.S. Eliot in the conclusion of the Four Quartets: after an endless consummated journey one knows one’s origins for the first time, as part of a circumambulated totality:

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time

This circular wholeness should be the very essence, or fabric, of existence: “a condition of complete simplicity”. Life as a circle of consumed fire, costing no less than every­thing...until one arrives, in the exploration, at a point or another on the lines of the circle…and then finally, the circle is sealed tight and curvaceously closed...all the discrete fragments-dots and endless dispersed pixels consolidated into a continuous curve, the circle of life circled…

Charmed by the sirens of life, we invariably think there is something more than the dark rocks were are heading t00000000000000

Our Great Physicians of the Infinite...

« Oui, Deleuze aura été notre grand physicien, il aura contemplé pour nous le feu des étoiles, sondé le chaos, pris mesure de la vie inorganique, immergé nos maigres trajectoires dans l'immensité du virtuel » (Alain Badiou)

The cosmic fire of the stars...

"To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And A Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an Hour"

(William Blake Augeries of Innocence)

A Library of Imprisoned Souls – Ocular Sphinxes

I have always liked libraries (cemeteries of dead life, of all that life could be) and spend most of my time in them. Not so much for reading (god forbid,s!) but rather, for the encounter, and hopefully the capture, of the dreamy female gazes that populate such enclosed hexagrams: ocular butterflies flirting amidst the hushed and rustling density of textual absorption…

Libraries are deeply erotic places, text, eyes and bodies mingle in a silent frenzy, which has driven many to lose their bookish reasons…out of studious oblivion a flash of ocular desire is awaken: eyes that disturb the peace, that disrupt the textual silence…fevered summits of ocular fervent sunders the neutral sphere… for an suspended instant, bodily form and textual content reach their zero point of fusion, amidst the rustling of papers…the sinuous resemblances of what is written or read is, for a while, disavowed…

The gaze spills over the edge of text and book, into the eyes of the other, in a suspended frame, text and desire momentary lapse into each other. Dreamy contemplations, that dream the person across the distant rows as the ideal soul that, maybe, will light up the darkness...Without spoken acknowledgement and amidst the reading of same author or subject, there is a play of fevered lubricity, often approaching delirium…yes, libraries and their bookish labyrinths, have never been places for studious sublimation or disinterested objectivity…

The true patron of all libraries has always been De Sade (a textual existence par excellence). And let us not forget Bataille, Borges and Foucault. All three thinkers considered libraries places of infinity, and hence, of the imaginary: simulacrums which disrupt the universal ideal and power claims of logical knowledge. A strange paradox indeed…The library has always been the infinite transgression of the ideal of universal knowledge, not its foundation or preservation. The conditions of bookish abundance, of textual profusion, is an accursed share, an infinity within, that perpetually disrupts, the closures and finitudes of universal knowledge. It is not surprising that throughout history it is the libraries that one burns down first, before all else…the destruction of text and the rape of bodies go hand in hand…violence as metaphysics…

Libraries, cemeteries, museums…all belong to the same dream series, somber repositories of what has never been and will never be…frozen dreams for a pristine dawn that has, and will, never come…the owl of Minerva, has never flown, neither in dawn or dusk…

Notes from Underground

“I've seen things...seen things you little people wouldn't believe... Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion bright as magnesium... I rode on the back decks of a blinker and watched c-beams glitter in the dark…all those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain...” (Blade Runner)

Is life a sarcastic smile in a deadpan universe?

The human is a tight-rope over an abyss between finitude and infinitude: all humans are inebriated by life-death forces beyond them - a human life made out of two directional forces, which move in opposite directions: time and matter. As such, man is torn apart like a sphinx answering his own questions - an infinity loop caught within the impossibility of an ascendance or descendance. No doubt, this is one of the reasons that the world so uncannily shimmers, a dream caught within another dream, ad infinitum…as if existence/life was not quite there as it should be…life’s horizon always falls away, whether in distance or nearness…

Consciousness, subjectivities and desires are embodied infinities, and yet, they are encased by finitudes or limits - social and natural - which sunder everything to an infinite potential that will never be individually fulfilled. What could be possibly more insane, tantalizing and Sisyphus like, than this earthly life we all fall into, for a while…Stringless Puppets waved around in the crystal sea of time…in which every cosmic wave and minutely drop is another world translucently foreclosing other worlds.. 0of which we will never see, feel or conceive...How could we possibly not be haunted by these “je ne sais quois” these “almost nothings”, as Vladimir Jankélévitch would say, these unknowables, ungraspables and untouchables, twinning and spiraling below the surface of our ego days and somber nights…

The Thirst for the Infinite - Hopperian Beauty

"When you are in bed and you hear the barking of the dogs in the countryside, hide beneath your blanket but do not deride what they do: they have an insatiable thirst for the infinite, as you, and I, and all other pale, long-faced human beings do. I will even allow you to stand in front of your window to contemplate this spectacle, which is quite edifying....Like those dogs, I fell the need for the infinite. I cannot, cannot satisfy this need. I am the son of a man and a woman, from what I have been told. This astonishes me...I believed I was something more" (Isidore Ducasse Lautremont, Les chants de Maldoror).

Don’t we all believe the same?...

In a 1982 essay entitled "What I Believe", Ballard spelled out some of the obsessions that inspire his work: "I believe, in the beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged forest, in the excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the ele­gance of graveyards, in the mystery of multi-storey car parks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels." These dispirited landscapes of Hopperian Beauty, haunt us all…

One could add to the complex of Hopperian beauty, (Edward Hopper, the genius painter of desolate lit landscapes) the following: echoing warehouses of overgrown emptiness, hollow factories of corroded iron, motorways of speeding light, the solitude of glazed looks across the dark night of neon lights, venetian blinds criscrossing the illuminated lines of a solitary night, and above all, the white reflections of pale naked flesh in exhausted motel rooms...

Break on Through - Gnostic Fire in the Ice-Field of God

Fragments of an ethics of evil...from a forgotten past to an unknown future…

The Gnostics believed that this world was not created by a perfect God of luminous light, but rather, that it was created out of complete darkness by an evil demiurge …must have got away with “creation” when God was busy elsewhere…The implications are quite obvious, the world of matter is Evil (here Evil is ontological, not psychological, Plotinus, Heidegger, Bataille and other thinkers, share this anti-humanist view)…

As such, we are prisoners of the immanent world of matter, but where is, as Levinas would say, the exit? Where is the transcendental escape from the suffocating plane of immanence? According to the Gnostics, only contact with the divine source within (i.e. gnosis) can obliterate us from the prison-world of immanence/matter. For while Evil created the world of body and matter, there is still a divine spark of light caught within the darkness: within the corroded depths of our bodies and hidden within the ego trappings of matter, a sparkling soul awaits its dawn…In this sense, the Gnostics’ Evil = Matter equation is quite conventional. Evil is fundamentally a passive form and based on lack; it cannot create anything of its own accord. Evil is a parasitical form and a viral relationship. Since the evil demiurge could not create something out of nothing, he used and subverted god’s original light of creation and buried it deep within the folds of his and our “constructed” world of matter.

As most religious practices the Gnostic were mostly ascetic; one could put them in the right category, but there was also a left wing, the libidinous Gnostics. The logic is impeccable: if the world is evil, you have only two choices in relation to the world of matter: either expire or indulge. In either denial or excess (two sides of the same coin) what counts is taking “it” to the limit, taking matter to the limit. And hence, to destroy matter/evil, in order to “break on through to the other side” (was Jim Morrison a Gnostic? “there are things know and unknown and in between are the doors”)…

If the world of matter is evil and you want to escape to the other side of matter, you can only do it with darkness and in darkness: the asceticism of the sun or aestheticism of the moon…

…a baroque logic for the otherworldly: use Evil to escape Evil, since you have no choice in the matter, you can only escape through what is given to you…

… sado-masochistic rituals of unspoken madness would court gang-bangs of fervent delight, whose outcome was not the usual hedonistic half-filled holes of desperate fluids, but rather, the shattering of an openness to the divine white light above (which has the distinct advantage of being somewhat less sticky)…ruby flows of libidinous sacrifices would bring willing victims to the altar of divine madness; again, this would not be the usual indulgence of sadistic freaks consecrating their pathological egos, but rather, the divine destruction of matter - thunder open the Evil material body – no longer closed onto itself...the outside beckons...

Maybe, all modern “Islamic” terrorist groups are innately Gnostic…(although I severely doubt it)…for they seem to have no aim or claim, except destruction and mayhem; and more shocking to western sensibilities, is the fact that they are prepared to destroy themselves in the process of destroying others…

Maybe, Islamic groups have incorporated a strange Gnostic absolutism of evil which has become highly delirious and absolutely fatal. Fatal strategies are at play here. The twisted logic goes like this: if you want to change and spiritually liberate or cleanse the world from the evils of matter, destroy it (unfortunately without the libidinous ecstasies of the ancient left-wing Gnostics). Now of course, it is difficult to destroy matter, virtually impossible, only God can do that, but “we” Westerns have come close to it. If God created the Atom, we have constructed the destruction. It is only a matter of time, as a few Hollywood movies have shown, that terrorist cells do it for real, on some divinely chosen metropolis...for Gnostic terrorism, maybe, that would be enough destruction and suffering to stop the evil ways of the world, what 9/11 could not achieve…An Hiroshima and Nagasaki of Evil liberation…in an Evil world, only Evil will spiritually cleanse the world…

….if things change for the “best” and the good, if there is such a thing, it is not because of freewill and ideal resolve, but because a disaster of such unfathomable proportion has led generation after generation to say: never again, never again will such barbarity happen again…how long will the memory of the horror linger on in successive generations is an unknown Number…time is the greatest atom killer of them all, it kills and destroys all in end, being and beings in equal measure…

…I do not know if, or why, suffering and evil are sooo linked to the “good”, all I know is that maybe, a few fanatical groups are willing to pay the price of no return…

…I do not know whether God/Good or the Devil/Evil created the world, but I do know that whatever their multifarious deliberations and choices of possible worlds before creation, and whoever-whatever was ultimately responsible for the outcome, they would have created the same identical world in both cases…a strange outcome indeed…

Nadja

The mirrors of all mirrors...the "surrealist glow in the eyes of all women"...

...Surrealist women: oblique objects of desire, figures of refracted beauty, muses from the sun-moon unconscious...childlike, mystical and receptive...

Melanie in the Sand - Condoms for the Death Drive

There is always that vacant moment admix the torpid passions of lustful bodies, which signs the death warrant of all desire; usually the girl, at some strategic point, spits out the magic word: “do you have a condom?” “you know we should…maybe” etc…(although it sounds better in French, from a Brigitte Bardot pouting 18 year old…Hi Melanie) at that point everything vanishes, the looks, the beauty, and the soft tanned skin in the sand…The spirit of attraction becomes like everything else, a mere transaction, plasticized fluids in a plastic life, or in Kant’s words ”to dispose over oneself as over a thing and to make of oneself a thing on which another satisfies his appetite, just as he satisfies his hunger upon a steak”.

Steak indeed…how is it possible that in the admixture of two ravishing pulses (which have no other ulterior motive than their immanent laws of attraction) reason/economy pops up its ugly head: admix the Dionysian frenzy, in the maelstrom of desire, a bureaucrat appears and demands his dues: all the accounts have to be in order before one proceeds to the next phase…at that point I usually give up, and kiss Her to death, as opposed to the little death and the big death…on this occasion, I left my Schopenhauerian pathos behind, Melanie enticed me further amidst the sand and moon…and all in good measure I flowed externally: full of protein, good for the skin and hair…jolly good! Economy is restored after all…I must admit it would be a sorry affair to see the luscious youth skin of the Melanies of this world corrupted by the viral…

Melanie was merely beautiful by sunlight; she was divinely sublime by moonlight…her deep pool eyes immersed all the stars above... and she looked whitely divine pearling Bukkake of reflected moonlight…none of us would want to die for that, would we?

A Rational Disorder of the Senses – Rimbaud vs. Kant

"In Rhetorique de la Drogue" Derrida speculates that the whole question of drugs is essentially a « praxis », or better still, an « art » of the testing of limits: of body and text, of sign and sense…in short, the limits of subjectivity/world are put into question or deconstructed (not destroyed)…the same goes for philosophical thought, which is about having limits and transgressing those arbitrary established limits. No matter which philosopher one reads, the philosophy in question will invariably start from a primordial limit, whilst, at the same time, displacing other limits by reconfiguring them elsewhere…anchors of finitude in the infinity of thought…

Since the substrate, or limit, of thought is psycho-chemical (and not ontological, rational, or eidetic, the three Hs of philosophy will have to go down the hole, or drop some K…) one needs to physically effect the abstract of thinking, to think anything at all: thought is a physical manifestation like any other “object” in the world…the radical altering of the abstract of thought is the unchained abruption and (temporary) dissolution of self and world: the praxis of fire that Heraclites stole from the gods, and Plato, unfortunately, recaptured for man…

Think about the “psychological” effects of drugs transposed to the abstract of thought. This would include the following abstract becomings, twisting and shattering the realm of thought: visual, auditory, tacit, olfactory, gustatory distortions and kinaesthetic perceptions, infinite differential changes of/in durations (time and space interchanging rhythmic folds) instantaneous changes in the rate of mental contents; body image changes, objective hallucinations, immense and heightened awareness of colour, abrupt and frequent affects and spiralling speeds...etc…if all this could be completely transposed to the abstract of thought, we all would be Gods, or at least, Dionysus would heed our calls…for Rimbaud’s “rational disorder of the senses” is, as Deleuze pointed out, not too far from the free “disorder” of the mind’s faculties in Kant’s Critique of Judgement….as Deleuze said, philosophy, as opposed to art, is still awaiting its abstract revolution…let us pray...for good, dutiful and beautiful chemistry...

The Death of Art - Hegel and Picasso

"In art the mass of people no longer seeks consolation and exaltation, but those who are refined, rich, unoccupied, who are distillers of quintessence’s, seek what is new, strange, original, extravagant, scandalous. I myself, since Cubism and before, have satisfied these masters and critics with all the changing oddities which passed through my head, and the less they understand me, the more they admired me. By amusing myself with all these games, with all these absurdities, puzzles, rebuses, arabesques, I became famous and that very quickly. And fame for a painter means sales, gains, fortunes, riches. And today, as you know, I am celebrated, I am rich. But when I am alone with myself, I have not the courage to think of myself as an artist in the great and ancient sense of the term. Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt were great painters. I am only a public entertainer who has understood his times and exploited as best he could the imbecility, the vanity, the cupidity of his contemporaries. Mine is a bitter confession, more painful than it may appear, but it has the merit of being sincere." Pablo Picasso (Interview with Giovanni Papini in Libro Nero, 1952)

It is maybe not Picasso’s fault...higher forces are at play...Hegel had already proclaimed the death of art one hundred years before... Art, for Hegel, had reached its expressive limit, its “spirit” or Geist, had been exhausted. Art’s expressive form had achieved all that it could (i.e. Romanticism). In Hegel’s scheme of things, art had reached full-circle in the complete self-awareness of itself as art...in other words, art becomes self-conscious. What is more Self-conscious than the “art” of Warhol, Joyce, Pound, Schonberg and Picasso?

As soon as a particular expression of Geist starts becoming self-conscious, it multiplies itself; art is everywhere, there has never been so much “art” in the world than today...and yet, what is “art”?

The very asking of the question amongst the proliferation of “arts”, is for Hegel, the Zeitgeist, or the “signs of the times”, that art is dead. Art becomes self-conscious, as it starts theorizing about itself in an interminable questioning of itself. How many artists think and breathe theory, how many discourses on art...but where is the inspiration, as opposed to the derision, where are the muses?, “the faces that would launch a thousand ships”? ...the life and beauty of Helen of Troy, swapped for...the Pamela Andersons of this profane world, selling burgers and optical devices for clear cut enemas...

....Art and beauty are not fresh anymore; canned, like Warhol’s Campbell soup tins, or Marilyn’s simulated beauty. How different, to take Picasso’s examples, the beauty and art of, Giotto, Titian and Rembrandt. Great painters, because they still had everything to paint, all the beauty in the heavens was still awaiting to be captured in art’s luminous form; they had spirit, as opposed to Picasso‘s “shock of the new” vanity games…the mere matter of “the strange, original, extravagant, and scandalous”….

When a spiritual or “Geist” expression (art, religion, ethics etc.) achieves complete self-awareness of itself, it is “dead”, it becomes equal to itself, the circle circled, and all dynamics (i.e. dialectics) is lost...of course, nothing is really lost for Hegel, all is incorporated in Geist’s dialectics towards the absolute, to full self-consciousness of itself, as itself, oops... getting a bit too Hegelian here...Hegel is hard to resist...

As is often the case, Hegel’s announcement of death, could be in Mark Twain's famous words, an “exaggeration”. Yes, an exaggeration, the spirit of Art, continued after Hegel’s own death. Hegel was wrong, art did not die…it merely survived. The nineteen century of Mahler, Flaubert, Mallarmé, Baudelaire and impressionism, still had something to prove, it pushed art’s spiritual form to the limits. Every crevice and crack of art’s expressive form was explored and exploded…but, however much art’s spirit was pushed to the limit, it did not break the beautiful form (no Finnegans wake of the text or Schonberg’s “amusic” here..)…art was just at the limits of complete self-consciousness, just before the flat-liner of self-consciousness...art’s life machine was still beeping singular tones…

But…in the twentieth century, Hegel may have been right after all. Art’s spirit had been completely exploded, every form, law, and composition transgressed. Where could art go, if not into self-oblivion, collapsing under the weight of its own self-consciousness….Art will be buried in the cemetery of human delusions, with all the other dead illusions putrefying in sunken graves: God (Nietzsche) Man (Foucault) the author (Barthes) reality (Baudrillard) etc…However, just before death, on the edge of oblivion and destruction, a distinct phase operates, which Hegel’s dialectics completely misses: just before the twilight of death and self-oblivion, self-consciousness breads derision and parody. Before dying, art, like most things in life, becomes ironic. Picasso knew that art was dying, he could smell arts putrefying bodies in the galleries and museums, the cemeteries and prisons of art …Picasso was self-conscious of art’s exhausted forms; thus in twentieth century, he could only be a public entertainer (like Dali and Warhol)…but, also at the same time, a wavering beckon in the desolate night of art…a beckon of all that has been lost, that is still, incredibly enough, sparkling through the materialistic veneer of the “games, absurdities, puzzles, rebuses, arabesques” of so called “art”…

What about the twenty-first century? Is there a life after death? Or is it a mere survival? Are the arts and artists in limbo? mere ironic pantomimes of past glories...all the more ironic, in that, there has never been so many techniques available, for artistic expression...Just imagine, what a Mozart could do, for the spirit of music, with the latest synthesizers and computer-tech...what viral soundscapes, what spiraling melodies...what infinity a Mozart could draw, from a mere binary machine. Unfortunately, we have the synthesizers and tech, but we do not have the Mozarts... Techno...Techno...Techno...but no requiem...

...Hegel talked about the dialectical ruses of History, (it all works for the “best” in the end) but isn’t History ironic? If as Marx said, History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as comedy, surely you need a third repetition to complete the triad, and irony will do just fine...the only entertainment there is, for a Godless God who is bored by all perfection and imperfection...irony with its bitter sweet symphonies, could even entertain a Godless God
...STOP...

The Uncanny Baroque – the Personal and Impersonal

The uncanny thing about the Bergson/Deleuze complex is, like all true spirituality, its baroque impersonality. A strange platonic reversal is at work in the Bergson/Deleuze matrix, by the fact that it is the objective (i.e. matter) that is personal, whilst the impersonal is the subjective. Bizarrely, the objective: our limits, aging, bodies, loss, self/ego psychology, language and social states of mind etc…are personal to the very core of our being, while paradoxically, the subjective is impersonal: it is not subject to the same temporal durations or rhythms. The psychic beats and dances to a different fugue…

The subjective and all its impersonal affects (life, the unconscious, libido, sensations, love, ecstasy, etc…) do not lose, limit, degrade, age, etc…with time, since they are not objective objects (i.e. not “located” “in” the space of matter/brain) rather, such affects have infinite disappearances and process as their ideal tempo. In short, the subjective ideal does not “age” or is subject, despite (the current) material inevitability of death, to bodily meta/physical finitudes (Heidegger drop dead!). This is why for Emmanuel Levinas, the subjective is the locus of, and is, the (actual) infinite. Uncannily enough, we personally inhabit or partake (in the mix of the banality and repetition of the everyday) a life that is far cosmically bigger than bigger:…a spiralling vertigo, a vortex sundering subjective life “into” the objective depths of the banality of being and matter…

The purity is clear: spiritual subjective “affects” vs. objective “effects” (the causal causality of matter). What is more objective and personal than the language we speak (or is spoken, “it” speaks us) our limits, our psychological weakness, our neuroses and our social quarks and quirks etc…What is more subjective and impersonal than the bubblings of the unconscious, dreams, libido and love etc...

….neither a philosophy of idealism or realism…the subjective is “real” because it does not technically exist, there is no “proof” or yard stick to measure impersonal awareness or “affective” contents…the objective is “false” because it exists, “it” can never be anything but itself, hence “it” can be mathematically/scientifically measured and effected…

The subjective is in disjunction with the objective and its statistical entropy mediated relations (although of course, the subjective is dependent on the objective/matter, but dependence does not entail identity and finitude). As such, for Bergson/Deleuze, the subjective is the locus, and is, the Virtual (equivalent to Levinas’ infinity)…

The Virtual, has nothing to do with the sad effects of virtual reality, on the contrary, the Virtual is the realm of the surface and the simulacrum: pure undiluted life itself, pure impersonal subjectivity - life in its pure negentropic potential…

For Deleuze, the Virtual is the “primordial soup” of life’s subjective impersonals: pre-individual singularities, multiplicities…difference-in-itself…and other madnesses and diseases of life that, from time to time, bubble up to the healthy equilibrated surface - in short, the Virtual is time and infinity all in one chaos, the chaosmos…

…chaosmatic bubbles exploding through the superficial membrane of objective life…

GOA – Kali Moonshine

Goa, India. December 6, 1997. Any day now, the season's about to start....moon months of acid, Thanatos, Eros, drug-busts, pure ecstasy, synthetic blips, trance, smack and moonshine. Any day now…. "I shouldn't be telling you this," whispers an English DJ from Birmingham, close to Goa's hidden workings, "but we're in for roller coaster and there are no valleys, only peaks. We have to wait however, cause the local kids are taking exams and the authorities do not want a load of fucking drug casualties stumbling about, It'll put them off their schoolwork." …we would not want that would we? to disturb the growing economic nightmare, sorry, tiger, from its studious grazing…

The build up to that first party is hyper-tense…that first kick off land is awaited by all with trepid tremors. The beaches are so womanly beautifully smooth it’s a crime to look…hard to breathe, humidity so dense it could cut a knife…at last, release: "a moon party…Monday”….

”Vita Femina” , “Life is a woman”, as Nietzsche would say, maybe he was thinking of Kali the four armed skulls wearing blackness, the Indian Goddess of annihilation and destruction, hence, of creation and life affirmation. Shiva is never too far behind, waiting in Kali’ blood stained shadows…

…"It's bad for Indians to see such things" says a middle-aged Indian smoking Ganja in a chillum…talking about blackness… this is the finest blackness in the world mmmm…

"You westerners think it is so easy, so spiritual, come here and you can live well for just a few dollars. On what you would spend on just one meal in your own country you can live for months here, what any Indian would die for, you waste for. You do nothing but waste energy …ok, hook me up to the national grid, or whatever the Indian equivalent is, if they have one… he continues, among puffs of narcotic smoke…just breathing it is already inhaling the madness of the gods… "You take too many drugs it's a bad example to India. It's not a good thing for upcoming Indians to see this much liberation"…liberation, or is that waste…aren’t the two synonymous?...

…there's a cute Indian girl hanging and talking with the western party travellers. She has just finished an MA in software engineering…how fucking original is that!.....from Delhi University and is taking time out to trav­el up and down her Kali-immense country. She wearing tight Calvin Klein denims, a purple “I’m an innocent slut” T-shirt…or something to that effect, well that is the west for you…did I say marketing…another thing to try for India’s starving masses... and high-hell sandals…is that not a contradiction in terms, fashion is cruel, stupid and effective, they all want to belong…and carries designer Gucci label baggage. Most of the hippy party goers…no I’m not a hippy, kill all hippies, haven’t you heard of punk, Kali’s anarchy in the universe…the spiritual ones, annoy and irritate her, because they only want to see the old India, the ancient places, they don't have time or curtsey for India’s evolving computer…hey Bill, there is an Indian up your arse…..film Bollywood here I come… bank­ing, investment…ehh ehn oh a no comments…fine arts…hard to stifle a yawn, how boring…"I like the parties," "It’s fun, wild, good - but it’s weird also. It's somehow too easy down here, too wonderful a fool’s paradises were all that glitters is not gold…what if it was…ok…silver will do…

….however, for us, it’s the package-charters who piss us off, we contemptuously dismiss them as hedonistic pimps, 'two weeekers' without grace or excess. Two weekly-weepers of booked returns invade the land of sweetness and light…

…this coming party, like many others, is for the Goa’s aesthetes: those holy graces that stay for months, roaming from hole to hole, and don't have regular lives-jobs back home…

The kind of people who are prepared to die for a gram, a pill, a kiss, and yet, somehow, always make it to the end, no doubt because excess is a sacrificial duty here. The moon and white beaches of Goa don’t ask for less. You have to earn the respect of Kali and only excess will do: burn…burn...burn like the thundering flames wavering in the distance, where all night/day the Hindus burn their dead on crackling pyres, filling the night with the acrid smell of burned flesh…Kali is everywhere…

There are some other western travellers inhabiting the outskirts of Goa, like the so called “Rainbow tribe”: who take long-term medita­tion studies, learn Sanskrit or work for months on end as Mother-Theresa vol­unteers in Kali ridden Calcutta. Some of them don't have any respect for the Goa Technoids. "Those techno-trance people” spits out an Italian Rainbow girl, "they just bring their own fucking culture to India. This is a good place to explore something spiritually different from the material west, but as long as they have their techno drugs they don't seem to care…indeed…we dance on the synthetic void and crave for a whiter moon…

“…have you ever felt so free? "No" smiles the girl with the purple shades. "Welcome to Goa."…

“Ok space cadets... prepare to hurtle yourselves through the cos­mos, hyperspace yourselves in twelve dimensions….” blips the sampled trance track played across the moonlit darkness...

We dance to the side of Kali in unison with her cosmic dance - her relentless beat and rhythm in divine synchrony with the trance of our synthetic machines.

Avid seekers of an infinity beyond all dawns, we reach that bittersweet point of no return where life and death are no more - no more fear, no more angst, no more neurosis and civilised decorum…

We taste the quintessence of freedom on our synthetic-lysergic coated tongues, and want more…of course…the black goddess is ever present in the shadows of our dancing lights….awaiting for blood and overdose to come her way…who will be sacrificed? No one knows…or cares…

Death is the authentic seal of our excess, without it, it would be all a joke, another packaged life from weepy-two-weekers.com, and no spirit would be present…Kali accepts only spirit; there is no counterfeit that can pass her scrutinizing mad ruby eyes, they red glow in the moonlit darkness… shadowing by moonlight, Kali sees all, and forgivee nothing...

Mercy…Mercy…Mercy, Mandy K…

I remember in early nineties when I was squatting in London’s King’s Road (always squat within the land of the posh!!) I met the purest of girls in a luxury of style:

Invariably, her black eyes were heavily underscored as if it had been weeks since she had last succumbed to the weaving hands of Morphus. As the days went by, an always whiter and whiter skin, wider and wider eyes, as if there was never enough light, avid pupils hungry for more light. It is always the beginning of the habit that is the most beautiful, because of the strangely ethereal transparency the skin takes on in the early days of the pristine dawn…

As the life of the body dwindles, the soul tries to ascend the valley of the body. She was destined to lose, but oh boy! (her favourite expression) what a ride…She ascended and ascended… double, triple, quadruple, the white light…Light and more Light…a translucent angel flapping in a luminous void…

There is always a light, neither inner nor outer, to reach…and it is of course, never enough; a perpetual falling in a gravity of cotton, that is neither ecstasy nor the negative of ecstasy, but rather, the underside of ecstasy. It is almost ecstasy turned inside out. If ecstasy had a shadow, this would be its experience: it is not “take the best orgasm you ever had, multiply it by a thousand and you are still nowhere near it” but rather, a total subtraction, neither addition or multiplication. Take all the best orgasms you have ever had, subtract them to the power of a million, and you are still nowhere there: a collapsed ecstasy under the weight of its own gravity – the ecstasy of an infinite density.

“I was bored” she told me “I decided to experiment. For 3 months I’ll take, and then I’d stop. I wanted to experience this rush that people laid down everything for it, the experience of an extreme purity on the edge of chaos, and then I’ll stop”, yes, yesss of course, sweeter in hell than the heaven they give us…

Eventually, if you waited long enough, an afterglow of a halo emerged, an angel out of the gutter, and then back again…never saw her again, except her crying mother. Always running with the quicksilver flow of life, thinking one can be swifter than death, but I guess not… The shadows of death catch the good, the bad and the high in equal measure.

Mandy K, R.I.P…Somewhere, beyond or nowhere…
…if nothingness or the void could be experienced we would forget to die…

Eyes and Bodies – The Dark Side of the Moon

The dark side of the moon: in shades of cobalt-blue, towards an erotic darkness we fall…

Not happiness, we live for beauty…and yet, how we always ruin it. How deep the disease of matter eats into the human body. We want to posses and control; whether, it is “just” physical attraction, the lust of one night, the love of three months, the kindness between two passing strangers…no we can’t take it, we must buy, have and show power, we want to cash it all, always go to the bank of our needs and status, control freaks opening up the coffins of exchange. Fear, always fear to lose, or that we might be taken for a ride…despite the fact, that for a few hours, days or seconds we felt what beauty/life was all about: “the best things in life are free”, and how strange that we can never live up to that freedom, and yet, it is all “there”, in the flagrance eyes of passing strangers, the yearning never ends… If souls could speak they would not tell us…

Glimmering techno ladies that fill the night with their graces and empty it with their egos…

We are not what we seem to be, or think we are what we want to be. We are acted upon by the images projected by our imagination, optical illusions reflected off the opaque surfaces of existence…

After and before ecstasy, life is a sublime climax that never comes…

Half-glimpsed behind empty forces, we are lead towards a boundless circumference…

Half-glimpsed and half-tried, the expended night always leaves stereo traces of a bitter sweet melancholy…

Shimmering summer nights: her hands tied above, criss-crossing both hands over an arch of naked steel…her eyes reflected deep pools of light, almost whispering: “it’s the way, not the climax, just the flow…”

Extremes of desire burning in the night, spirited illusions of a viral infinity…

A sense of ease in the lightness of existence is the spirit of life…

Freedom can only come out of beauty…

Marble Cool - Dionysian Cuts

The crude and the pure: one seeks a purity of expression that verges on being a crude poetics…

Eros is always about our desire for the impossible-real, not the real of our egoistic illusions that imprisons relationships, but the real that eludes materiality…

Dionysus dances techno, feeding on grapes of rainbow pills, singing tales of chemical sex, lust and love…

Sparkling nights, where everything twinkles, eyes, lights, skies, and desires…

…beauties who nurse their skin by moonlight and stagger around the meat rack, abyssal eyes spiralling with drugs for every star. All those girls that go too far, prolonging the ecstasy till dawn…maybe…just maybe, share a spiritual secret…

Pills of many colours reflected the caramel opaqueness of smack…

Sweat and ecstasy remained in a state of lived music. Hard-edged, metallic, molecular and bass driven: abstract rhythms of silvery nights…

…on the dance floor a crowd locked into the groove, faces and bodies cutting angular shadows against geometric patterns of coloured beams…

…naked…the girl’s skin perspired a dense abstractness, mirroring hues of metallic blues, greens and rusty silvers; the colours shimmered, rearranging shifting surfaces across her marble-cool skin …unhinged from the beat ambiance, she looked like a beautiful otherworldly extraterrestrial siren washed up on the sublime shores of an alien lust…

Time and matter, for once, stood still…hours, minutes and seconds dripped dropped like sinuous lava, melting everything, stripping all of life’s lust and pornography away…yet, full of erotic longing….

…lights made of infinite colours drawing vectors and arcs of optical designs, greeted us beyond the boundaries of time and space…

It’s all about Crystals - Crystal Infinities

Writing should be a search, a quest through words, whose only direction is the beyond of words - life in its pure sacred immanence…

Writing is not about stories, theories and contents, which in our post-modern world have been exhausted to the point of sick parodies, but rather, a clearing of words through words – to write the crystal thunder of silence on the opaque infinity of being…

The infinite soul of man for the finitudes of science: not only is God dead, but Faust is about to collect his dues, any moment now....

What does one do, when one sees an infinite promise full of life and beauty? one tries to catch those eyes, maybe to glimmer a possible empathy, even to try to capture the secret possibility of a spiritual communion - whose reality will always be in dispute, even after the event - was it all an material illusion?

The crystal quest: find and inebriate the true passion of minerals and crystals, and break on through to the other side of infinity…

The only feel and hope there is: to live under the archway of a crystal infinity…

If there is nothing, and all is matter, why the perpetual epiphenomena of life and self?

In-between spirit and matter, shimmering mirages in a desert of illusions….

A general emptiness from time to time infuses all things: people speak, but, they don't make sense, apart from a strange phonetic cacophony; almost like, slivering lizards bathing in the white coldness of multiple moons....silvery lizards hiding in-between the city’s shapes and shadows...

Eyes that exchanged nothing, except the void of each other…

Night-time in the ultraviolet shaded city: under cheap neon lights and the thudding vibes of elegant beats, he waits, for a female design to emerge, out of the undifferentiated darkness, into the crystal light…He sat down, near the edge of the dancing crowd, a void looking for another void. Then, one fall of light caught his eyes; emerald eyes reflected the gyrating lights around the dazzling shards…

Dressed in black, slits high in front…dancing away all she had, Valerie felt, at last, a kind of melting freedom, gently surging itself to the pounding rhythms, gently pressing her inside, or so it seemed, for the heroin-ecstasy mix was already fading blue...

A sacred whore from Babylon, rising from the shadows of the gods...or maybe not...a material girl graving for thrills, tricks and chemistry…

London Calling

Saw a beautiful face of a darkly woman appearing out of the top branches of a ..tree blowing in the wind, above my window. Quite an uncanny appearance almost surreal in its face-branch design, a true epiphany…one always waits, mostly in vain, for these spiritual singularities/events to happen which open-up for an instant the suffocating no-exit immanence of material existence….from time to time, a luminous sign of an exit called transcendence flashes in the dark cinemas of our existential matter…

…and talking about events and matter, London after New-York and Madrid has been hit by a series of “terrorists” attacks. As if life wasn’t difficult enough keeping a job down and commuting to work everyday…of those London commuters who woke up this morning to go to work like any other day, some of them are dead, and most of them are severely injured…keeping a job down in the major cities of the west is becoming like Russian roulette...of course, this is what the terrorists want, to breed a perpetual atmosphere of fear, disorientation and panic, to break down the “enemy” psychologically and socially… this is the ultimate Foucauldian breeding of the “panopticon”: the ultimate presence in the most widest sense possible with the fewest means - the terrorist eyes and presence are everywhere covering the largest area possible, even when they are not there, and no bombs are present - the terrorists also know their Deleuze, to avoid major capture keep the cells rhizomatic and avoid the tree…

Chaosmos - The Aesthetics of Grace

Beauty is always wild, untamed; a Dionysian frenzy pursued in form, a pure gift of exuberance, a rarity not a commodity…

Spiritual singularities that break the matter of the linear world are the eternal hypocrisies of all times…

Amongst the tones of flesh and curves that one chooses, it’s important to remember that they are signs of ones own transcendental instinct, that such "attunements" have to be trained towards an intense "microscopic messianisms": to pierce the modern life-chains, and reveal all around us the infinity of nuances and gains of imaginative graces…

You can buy women’s finite bodies and simulations but you can’t buy their infinite ecstasies. Whether poor or rich, one is either lacking in matter or completely imprisoned by matter. One hopes for more. Isn’t this why we say, spirit, love or Eros rule the world, yet, simultaneously hypocritically, we always fail to hear those calls, the calls of the sirens…

Chaosmos - Life is all about floating selections in a sea of inconsequentials; yet, this savage intensive sea, this web related background of undifferentiated heterogeneity, is the necessary backdrop, for the extremes of the peaks and the singularities of selection to emerge…out of the mass of undifferentiated relations…

Art is what life is all about…

A summer night falls on our cities and ourselves, in the gentle breeze of the shimmering lights they lusted in their sweaty golden reflected light, two oily undulating reptiles from another Eden…

Rituals of pain and pleasure took place in dark rooms of velvet hues, ivory breasts were plunged into pressing hands. Lips of luscious red kissed over legs of divine proportion tied in black streams of silk…finalizing an invisible contract with an ebony angel…

Her body reflected the dark underside of a strange spirituality…

She stopped dancing as if exhausted, moved nearby to those eyes that she could not help enticing, or even resist...if only she could yield a bit more, without fear…

Lust of love - They began walking through the dancing crowd into the dark streets outside, through the electronic sounds of the beating hearts he followed her, with the white light moon above and the city’s amber fire ahead, in tune with the hollow rhythms of her high-heels clicking on the pavement. Arriving at the outskirts of the city, amongst the broken down factories and empty iron barracks casting heavy shadows he turned to her as she pouted out her luscious lips...they both embraced under twisted steel, bathing in the sun of an oblique moon...and he languidly whispered “I lust you…I want to fuck you…“

What is the sea? a chaos of translucent droplets within drops…

I love you I love you – Pretty Vacant

Eerie, eerie….

The denizens of the spectacle have reached such levels of celluloid awareness that they are unable to stop the filming, even when the outside-filming has allegedly stopped. This desperate “strange-loop” logic of the spectacle is fully illustrated by the infamous Pamela Anderson’ “sex” video, where Tommy Lee cannot stop filming, even though he seems to be fucking for “real” the most beautiful woman in the world; yet, he still wants to film, so that he can masturbate to the recorded digits….so=- even when you get the most ejaculated woman in the world you still film…eerie…it seems there is no escape from the “strange-loop” infinite regress levels of the spectacle, no absolute meta or outside exit…Tom and Pam between their cocks and cunts scenes shout: I love you, I love you, I love you… they are not quite sure, hence, they have to repeat the sacred words innumerable times throughout the video…one can’t help perceiving an eerie glow emanating from the video’s recorded action, on the side of the living-dead maybe, “pretty vacant” as the spectacular sex-pistols:

Oh we’re so pretty oh so pretty vacant
But now and we don’t care
Don’t ask us to attend cos we’re not all there
Oh don’t pretend cos I don’t care
I don’t believe illusions cos too much is real
So stop your cheap comment
Cos we know what we feel
We’re pretty pretty vacant
We’re pretty pretty vay-cunt
And we don’t care

Barely Legal - From Botticelli to Bacon

…our high/low “cultural” representations are the most violent in a world that compared to the past is the least violent in actuality (at least in the happy go lucky West): enframing all media representations to the auto-logic of capitalism, which effects the automatic permutations of/to the extreme: hard rock becomes heavy-metal, then trash, etc…porn, gonzo porn etc…horror, gore, hip hop rap, gangster rap…the faster they go, the sicker they go…on and on..:from Botticelli to Francis Bacon; courtly love to hardcore-porn, gothic sublimity to slasher gore etc…

And yet, this has not always been the universal case. One only has to contemplate the art of the middle-ages, to see that it is a pure and positive inverted heavenly mirror of the real violent negatives: deaths, plagues, miseries etc…of daily life. Our culture is the exact opposite, what Nietzsche and many others called a decadent age, enthralled and fascinated by the very antithesis of their boring fat lives…like domesticated animals grinding against their cages entranced by the wilderness beyond…hence, the violent representations circling around the mediasphere…

And the people who consume the violence of representation, are the fat classes of suburbia who have never stared death or Eros in the face: the bored teenagers with their dead eyes on weed, the dads who slip the gonzo videos to ejaculate to “barely legal” pony-haired girls taking it up into their cum dripping carnivorous voids …the mums who dream of male seducers from the outskirts…

This is the classic Freudian “condemnation” of culture and civilization, but with a big difference; all the diverted repressed materials of sublimation are now out in the open: the unconscious as a libidinous screen, not a dark theater. This is what Freud could not predict: the libidinous botany and flora of the dark continent of our collective unconscious, would literarily exteriorize itself out onto the digital celluloid.

Freud underestimated the power of sublimation, because he was not exposed to the media medium of high-technology; he could not imagine that capital/technology could take over and colonize the unconscious, to externalize by objectify it: glossy print, celluloid, digital, silicon…

Yet, this media mediated exteriorization is severely different from the surrealists who attempted to do the same through aesthetics: capitalism hijacked the unconscious and determined to make a profit out of it; as everything else, another standing reserve to exploit. And who says exploitation (i.e. business), upholds the values of the common, the blandest and homogenous: the unconscious is reduced to a stereotype of form, within stereotypes of content.

Capitalism can take anything except instability, and will not tolerate lacks of identity (how //ever temporary and ambiguous) of any kind (the fashions of authentic belonging reigns supreme) whether conscious or unconscious.