This is how in the remote part the deep calls to the deep and says :: oh illuminations of the external darkness of our lapse into capital’s nova spiral. / I am a deceived man, he said … I wrote a diary once … Who deceived you? she asked. The world is not as it seems … especially at night. ::— dans le parc, je deviens un détective privé … → [ ] ou un Cowboy … ::— / ( every childhood belongs in the Wild West — the Wild West has the property of overflowing mechanical time to inundate my unearthly childhood )
induced schizoid personality recognitions in the night world of mechanical clocks that would suddenly start up … he had (perhaps he’d invented it when he saw his childhood friend laying asleep in a muddy stream … wake up! wake up! but there was no sound … his dreams are silent movies in which he speaks fluent but unheard French … a horror of being underground, a sky of countless tons of rock) harbored the notion for years that the night before he was to die he would be given one wish by a benevolent genie. He’d devoted a great deal of thought to what that wish would be … why not three? she asked, don’t genies give three wishes? it’s the first one that counts, he said. The first wish lands you in trouble, the second wish makes the trouble worse, the third wish is for undoing the machinations of self-inflicted voyager dreams … all barriers dissolving, wheezing ( groaning ) a musical tune as he turned the crank on the little [[ time ]] machine he’d built, an overly complicated organ seeming to make all souls united as one. / what true of a writer may not be true of a detective … the writer abhors any change to the order of his days — an obsessive more ritual-addicted than a monk … ( Chevillard : vertiginous contemplation on his vocation … the hell of infinite repetition, the labyrinth closing … a tunnel lined with millions of little mirrors )
Why are you here? she asked him taking a sip from her beer glass. He observed as she licked a speck of foam clinging to her lip. All stories have beginnings, he said. They need middles. What about endings? she asked. No, he said, never any endings … a system of arcades.
He tried to remember … the images seemed to make it hard to see how emotional a schizoid : every heart makes one last effort, just as I heard it : detachment & disinterest is a kind of cocoon … the one [singular … seemingly] escape ,, the door that is left open is the corral (holding pen, charnel house) of … every soul is now three dim bells sounding in the favorable, long-term other soul. “Your face is my face. Every face is the other face brushed by midnight air.” … à la mort du père, le fils le mord aussi / baby boomerang along anarchist social transformation for a better world, the world in which we are really free. The individual is the one illusion that never spikes. A person like you always draws lines. These are the instances where she rides like a cowgirl in the graveyard … guns blazing bang the whole gang of outlaws and pirates … when the society you live in is run by nova criminals, you gotta be a pirate ,, bandit … when people are detached and lacking empathy, you need to build a pirate ship … All Aboard!
I spend the week distributing leaflets of the night in the streets of New York … she didn’t look like a witch, but I took her word for it when she turned the frog into a film critic. There’s something about pirates I started, I said. The witch said, “I never did see the author’s campaign to play for Master of the Dungeon.” Of the day I’m trying to write, the time goes by, but I think that the other word for stronghold is Keep, for example … blasts … there’s a place I know, I said, it has a little garden courtyard where we could sit and dredge our memories for answers to life’s trivia questions … wasting away … We sat across from each other & she said : your novel! (a rewriter’s whistle cream :: // everything always has to be started over again, that’s why everything must be continually rewritten ) … but all I ever do is play around as time flies and it’s only when it’s too late that I see time provides food not bombs baby ,, you never did spike a boomerang … passing by when you are robbed of an hour by diarrhea for the people … which might explain all those dreams about overflowing cesspools of … we know they are all lying to us, but we want to believe the lies that satirize by banging the whole gang and a half for two hours of your life while mishandling half-rotten produce, what’s the world coming … ? mince meat pie in the dog’s eye von Neumann’s elephant coz all you have in life is time, so they take even that from you … “junkie time traveler kids” in the context of the White Whale or White Elephant … in your dreams which are my films, you become aware of every internalizing guilt and checking into the waiting room where you will read the book that is “too much” … seconds pass through my body … sickness is a privilege of bodily awareness… “Presidents and CEOs are too full of shit. We can help!” / strums his guitar : I am an eagle on the wind ,, I’m searching for you baby ,,, booma booma boomerang ,, spiraling repetitions ,,, you next meal , searching through the garbage looking for a … and understanding why the one percent need bodyguards.
No, no, you don’t understand, let me tell you my story coz it’s your story too, yeah. // the first time she had not seen him in Boston ,, the system is clear : as one would when you are looking for a friend in Moses Jesus Mohammed … who’s next! Did your Uncle Sam walk alligators through the Public Garden? … where, as she recalled, what can you expect in a Glam Rock collection like this? one has to show dedication and attention to detail … I see my role as curator of a mad museum of curiosities … aiming for humor, always misunderstood coz if you don’t know who you are ,,, how can you stand being chained? doing time, all you have is time … it will take a very long time to dispel the lies : how much time do ya got? only the rest of your life … to take risks and target books …
the freedom he offers is your bed, an incident when he was peddling the swan boat, there are hits and there she was bending down in the snow ,, naked, on pale waters with a woman : what he misses is the do-it-yourself approach … the trick is not a trick, don’t specialize, do everything, be nimble … evergreen trees & snow hooding the long-haired bushes, white, her face shrouded by white snow piling up on a crooked umbrella, a white motor veil, a cloud theory developed by well-intentioned people whose practices break down fences … the snow piling up buried her … white dress billowing like those great authorial questions, such as what is it that you love? shall I lose my life entirely in the labyrinth of my past? {i} snow-covered roofs, the crystal snow blotting out all but those colorful balloons with streamers, her shoes : Bombs that will likely offend some baby readers of the lost & forgotten roads ,, booma booma bommerang like white boats, her face unseen for reality bears always with time and yet remains visible in the memory …
{i} It is my duty to deny such accusations : why shouldn’t I live on two … why only two? when three will do … four! heads up! it my great escape plan to hurriedly flee from one to the other when things get messy either here or there and my great curse … what do I know of the plenitude of presence? the height of great emotion? swamped as I am by maudlin sentimentality ,, choking on passion when always, always I’m rummaging in my sac for a pen and a notebook … should I ever come back to earth? reality is never at the same time never what it seems nor anything more than a flattening of my one and only metaphor.
some call it anti-media, an antidote to the sickness of reality programming, but really it’s just a refocusing, a get your head out of the mystifying clouds, and seeing what’s around you and how that’s more real than anything they can put on your screen, even you. / They have the aspect of fateful disappointment of those who know, who have recognized their capability to actually change reality … but it seems they are always falling short, just through being : yeah, time to jam the failure, this is just the way the world is, broadcast … but (no doubt) it does get to you sometimes and you ask yourself why am I doing this? they are just going to come along with their batons and boots and … isn’t it better to hide, go limp …
I now remember through context … unreal just through its being unrealized … cloudy youth is wasted on those who … ? Was I, after all, a polemicist? a writer of zines detailing the sexual abuses of Presidents used as a weapon to wage war? / through its omissions of … a bachelor machine and his family life … realizations which made me tremble at the emanations of my overactivity … the clinicians described it as a case of graphomania when the pen is mightier than the bullet, baton, bomb … instead of killing them, let’s starve them, cut off the circulation of caustic green slime …
she added in a tone on the threshold of a jewel-framed door of the imagination, really, my desire is reminiscent of Robespierre: It is a thrill to destroy the life of someone who really deserves it, but the playbook they give you is rigged. A gun is enough rope to hang yourself with … gotta be like the Buddha, man, no holes, no holds, you can’t hurt someone who doesn’t have any points of vulnerability … that’s why they need so many bodyguards, ya dig? what if we all ignored them? what if we became Israelites and followed Brother Duckworth into the Wilderness? if we don’t make anymore straw bricks … All the Kings Horses And All the Kings Ice Men. / Boomerang baby, never spike the cocktail of human relationships … we’re all in it together and all we have is time … thrill baby! person … but ya always gotta … bang the whole opium enchantment : the individual in a gang … my darling boards an erratic bus plowing through bountiful … expanding her soul through question lines inventing a new nowhere suggesting no landscape but a far, enlarged horizon where all of us can discover what it is to be … creating an anarchist culture of clouds, flights of angels drifting past the impossible not only possible but around ourselves moving away from the penal colony and misted windows, no other goal but the plausible land where we’ve learned the art of discarding all points of vulnerability.
His plan had been to keep her, but he kept his head down lest she … ask to read his diary entries. I’m a deceived man, he said. Who deceived you? and how? [ ] Now, let’s begin again. #NN25
The purpose of the time machine is to (instead) create a world of our own & document that. We have the necessary tools : the fragmentary forms, the lists, the diaries, the notebooks, & the letters … even our alphabets have more letters than theirs … it’s the crotchetiness of these forms that brings to mind Virginia Woolf’s dictum that on or about the time we decide to live as pirates, the world will change. only a little work is required.