Cool http://www.alansondheim.org/P1040357.JPG https://youtu.be/HJSOeZlC4Eg VIDEO So this is where it begins, this cool and idiotic repetition, i'm here thinking i've not much time left. my body drops three hundred meters, i'm still up here, idiotic word 'cool' over and over again and the constitution of a zero-sum state, everything teeters, falls down. another word for 'falls down' is collapse. what letters fall like this, let's take the little ones, a h k m n p which droops, w x y which droops, z - g and q droop as well, it depends on the line and the lineage - g an invented letter. But I flee from nonsense like this, tired of concrete poetry, things that remain senseless and hungry in the visible world, what then. Rather a cry, but that's too easy. Rather a murmur, the shadow of a muskrat within the burrow having swum the channel between shores. Any morphism is any other within a granular synthesis that deson't require software but ennervates emerging worlds. It's cool, this is, teetering on the uncanny cliff of reason. Down there the text emanates me. Here is the difficulty: I can no longer believe in things, in a real, in digital or analog distinctionis, in a world in flux, in flows, in catastrophes, in descents, in relations and components, in a real or a fake, in facticity or nonsense, in diegesis or grounding of any sort, in anything, in fissure or inscription. It's emptied out, too cool, too complex, too licit and illicit, too reeking of justice and law, of language of any sort, of codes that retain something for the existence of a breath. Neti neti, neither zen or anything else, what then. What's cool she said under her breath? Cool that the world's a pocket, that in the distance I constantly hear thudding, up close there's tinnitus which I know, now, is out there, not a figment of self-productive neural looping but something just beyond this room, this forest, this containment. It's the only flux I know, irregular high pitches that ask for nothing, demand nothing, are as There as There Is. For the moment they're cool; when I die and disappear, they will as well, to the detriment of existence itself. What exists? Existence. Nothing more or less. It's cool, almost cold, or will be. Not in my lifetime or yours, but outwhen. What we're walking on is nowhere, it's cool, my temperature already dropping, I'm feverish - well, shuddering - as if I were feverish, perhaps I am. The world droops, note well, not droops from anywhere or anywhen - it's an exhaustion. It's even an exhaustion to write this, as if I had a choice. It's cool I don't. There are no definitions. This isn't a language. 'This' isn't a word. --- somatic ghosting beginning in an emanated text on somatic ghosting - virtual life, but something else - where the package is on the move. so cool, the clear body or the appearance of the clear body. it's uncanny, this desire, as everything of everything fecund, as if fecund, drooping, almost on the verge of production, of industry, of digital manipulation, of divisions and inscriptions, the whole sad world absent, even of ghosting absent, as if there never were production. fissured, fission, fusion disappearing beneath the sign of the same, always already the same. one can't experiment with anything or anyone, that's cool. there are ointments for that, already absorbed in the fabric of what passes for the universe. i'm insisting i'm continuing to think, i don't know what that means or what that might mean, existence or non-existence notwithstanding - the ghosts aren't even my own. it's all emptied out, nowhere at all. as if 'grep -v' might leave remnants behind - --- grep -v o < file >> file --- remnants behind - --- or grep -h taking out the names, the nouns, the things, the verbs, the doings - how cool is that? _______________________________________________ NetBehaviour mailing list NetBehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org https://lists.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour
