Character Notes

NOTES

Language constructs are spiritual forms
Pulled from intuitions to pave reality
Freedom exists when conventional
Logic is overridden by a line of flight
Materiality is itself reshuffled
At the evocation of a construct
As a daemonic form - a designated
Piece of the interface between
Your individual consciousness and the infinite
Think of Enochian Magick
And the Practical Kabbalah
Because true magical language
Must involve actual life forms
They must be unique beyond reason
Or paraphrase - beyond our comprehension
And grasped only by our senses' twin.



INTUITIONS

1. Beliefs are ideas with intensities attached to them.


2. The Akashic records are: a) the place where intuitions come from; b) not a place; c) Living and conscious; d) The book of life; e) From different points of view, are an aspect of god, pure form, include materiality and nonmateriality.


3. Entities are the Akasha invidualized.


4. Force = Akasha


5. Form = Akasha


6. The "Forms" are Akashic Records.


7. NLP/DHE is a form of what Rudolf Steiner calls the "Philosophy of Freedom."


8. Submodality work involves observation of thought and sense-independent thought, as described in Steiner's POF and Higher Worlds.


9. Intuitive investigation involves exquisite user of imagination.


10. Fragments of intuition are available throughout life at all times.


11. Plato's archetypes are more fluid than we generally think, and are in fact what we are talking about when we user the words Pattern and Form, those 'things' which we discover in the world.


12. To the argument that "we" as human observers invent and impose the patterns and forms (as well as concepts), we must add that we and our observations and impositions are parts of the entire world system that creates and manifests the patterns as it (we) observes.


13. While the Map may not be the Territory, the map is a territory on its own terms, in relation to the territory it intends to reference and interrogate.


14. Patterns of language and ideas are forms of life - a symbol is not dead but is a form of consciousness, and on some level may behave as an entity.


15. Writing is an imitation of the mind of god, and god is impersonal though infinite intelligence; in other words writing is a specialized instance of the mind of god.


16. There is no such thing as the "supernatural," though there are obviously things outside the comprehension of material senses.


17. A belief system is an operating system - whether you are a "believer" or an "atheist," you are still operating according to the belief system you were born into, relatively speaking, on an unconscious level.


18. All belief systems are false in actual terms, since they rely on subjective constructs that are supported by a five sensory system hardware and operating system.

Yet More of 'The Broken Bowl

Document R


When Leonardo mapped the body he sketched out what he found within the flesh of the dead; when Vedic philosophers did the same they formed topologies of sensation.

Only one course was objective, observing the body as an object, and the other was as subject.

In the second case the body is not defined by how it can be detected by the senses, and their extensions, i.e. arrangements of lenses, but by what its senses can gather or manufacture.

These observers spent time not slicing apart what was left after life had exited, but attending to the only bodies they had subjectively available: their own, and at times the bodies of their lovers.

Eventually they found through mimicry they could approach knowledge of the sensations of others, and then create through confabulation those which could only be imagined in sequences of events called stories, images of the ideal face each subject wished to possess.

It was then that the wish was formed as an idea and a voice would carry one’s wish into the air to extend the sensual range of that body as prayer, and as song.

As the wishes grew in complexity they needed greater tabulation or to be arranged in sequences and variations of sounds and their associations with the living.

And so their corpses find their way to the page in what is written, as is here, a wish that can no longer know itself but only sing and search attempting to mend the division its logic wept into the confusion of so many wishes.




Document X


Say you have some number, some value X. It may win you a prize. It is very unlikely that it will, but that question will go unanswered while the ambiguity of the circuit remains open.

X marks the spotty and no longer virgin winter tundra, cranked oil fields of metonymy, reason’s arcs and locks, all the impatient wedges added to one’s portrait to avoid elective surgery. X and its many possible options, positions on the chart, career choices, when destiny lacks inevitability and the remaining contingent factors are all more or less, more or less. If your scoop of topological measurement could lift you out of the disarray, plop you back where you thought you’d belonged, you might find it an uneasy fit until the work of fitting is done and you’d be right back where you had been. It could well be that this act of fitting is destiny, or anything that might pass for it, when it is in actuality a wriggling into shape, much as we do when we are asleep, or working our way toward sleep, finding the comfort, or the appropriate discomfort to dream what we need to dream, something I will often wake up in the middle of the night amidst, unable to find the key back in. For someone in this state there is often an unfolding of the various discomforts haunting on the periphery of waking life, the ever insurgent resentments, financial woes, vague terrorisms unexplained in the body’s behavior. It is your choice, go on from there—though it may not feel as though it is, the irreconcilable flows that he or she may run up against and which may just as well disappear meaninglessly for no particular reason after months of battle. It is then that we forget what we had wanted to forget all along, as if forgetting was a salve we could rely on, without calling on the x-ray, or the death ray, years of reprogramming or analysis, or whatever device might blossom on the forefront of the imagination, promising to soothe and make right, and then settle the nerves that may well be responsible for the whole absurd theater from the outset.

Of course the people of one’s life weigh in significantly as well, these smooth prison officials from the workplace, for instance, with their stim-response managerial shuffle cultivated from potty training days and trumpeted into your home within as abusive hooks and jambs, walls of sound constructing a noisy fire that in the end is exceptionally unmotivating, but without which no corporate structure could possibly exist, since the very walls are made up of this fire, the heat and violence money needs to be made into more money like a rage flame accumulating in the alembic from very many sources, and because our world is driven by such agonizing, there is forgiveness all around, and as the smoke turns the rotor it dissipates and only its shadows play on screen, where we get our laughs, choking down another with dinner, at the same pitch as the central key on the keyboard. Not C, perhaps B flat, for the thing was not built symmetrically and most pieces can be played in any key, at least the basic melody, though an instrument like piano may be more difficult to transpose than say a guitar, where moving up and down the fret board easily does it. There’s no worry about which white and black levers belong to the current frame. Years you can play an instrument and still not know how to play others, while some people can slip from one to another as easily as I might change my tie. She might be a young Asian woman, or a grandmother from Brussels, a bearded octogenarian with a fiddle and a hammer dulcimer. Anyone of them may have a relative recording an album in his mother’s basement, playing every instrument, or sampling a few, some strings perhaps, to give the slow song the added depth a death metal band might need to sound so classic seventies. If he succeeds he makes one want to go out and hate disco all over again. Until Madonna appears, and then Prince. And it makes you wish you had continued striving toward one of your own aspirations, pick one from the bar chart, that variable of variables, like the changing weather in one’s sack of flesh, one of those multitude of flavors, none of which could actually serve to transpose what it was you were feeling until it began to wonder itself to death.

What you have fealty toward one day or the next day and how it gets categorized in your bumper to bumper catalog of wants and wishes on page 17 of your organizer. But that number slips by and spreads out, becoming indistinguishable from the environment once you try to be happier with the way things have turned out so far. Like mud on the trim of your dress, the one you wore to the movies so no one could see anyway. And which one was it? Something about men on flying carpets trying to rescue children of the countryside whose parents had just been blown to bits at a wedding reception. But you love to get bombed by sipping the remaining dregs out of the glasses of the others at the party. That eventually put you in the hospital with a deadly infection, and you lost several fingertips to gangrene. Even after that you could still juggle and put back together shards of delicate pottery for exhibits at the Met and The Museum of Natural History, and you could still paint your ass off and drink deeply with the rest of the losers on 11th Street: Excene Mudraki, Angelina Farina, Dirty Lick Boy, Potty Child, Solar Baby, Jack to Die For. When you were all spindled two or three years to or fro of thirty there still seemed to be some remaining, heartwarming, youthful stupidity left in all, which you’re glad you’re through with, but miss quite gravely. And the election results didn’t help. And that’s why you decided to let the dice make decisions for you. You’d work for days filling in each of six sides with another possibility. Somehow you always got the same results. The formula stays the same and then so does the arc, that thrumming of one’s own rhythm section that well-wishers cheer you on to dance to, though only through a clean break might one end up with something different, though scientifically this remains an impossibility. One has to suspect science these days; the man in the moon never once saw that coming.

More samples from 'The Broken Bowl'

Document C


The sun opens its mouth over the bridge
And warms the eastern sky above
The ocean, which is mottled from
Talking to itself so much while we slept

Though this is only a way of speaking.
The sun opens up in physical moments
Through sensory mechanics congealed
And overfed, the eastern sky over

Memory and its way of saying
And arranging. And to talk about how
It is always an opera, monkey singing
Reason as another monkey song

Talking to itself so much while we slept
Filling form with hums and squawks
While I was trying to say, he was trying
To say what I set out to say without

Digression, analogy, but even setting out
Is the sky over the ocean, and the unknown
Taking steps to tease the unthought out
Of others, the thing recorded or wrought

Only accidentally may chance to notice
Something in the invented record of what.



Document D


The running: whatever service it may provide it stands in question
may invent and venture
learning under and catastrophic
what in times the shallow pools

Reflect upward having itself in no light and no question
spanning pages
lakes appear and unevenly there are lakes upon

Feeling that down in the fuel and function

Open upon the placement tall as countermovement and their casements

Running upwards

In question whatever service provides us pools and amusements

A question spanning services

Reaction can fuel or falsify—what the world sees
and entanglements spanning munitions as questions meant in mist understood

What about this reflex of the door open to silence and protect, science
of these bar chords
amusement
what about violins at pavilions

Unsheathed layers the mouth missing its voice
considered the something or other
pushing pins in its balloons

Pushing pins into the seconds are stones striking

One eye at a time, let them unfocus and watch what lines
Will help you survive
Crystalline operations of dreamwork.

And sleep them into tools

Mouthfuls of sameness alive and vociferous forest and the trees warm coil of what we may not believe

One eye at a time, a question spanning, as in between, feeling that down what believes us

Enactivism

"Systems that continually create themselves are referred to in Enactivism asautopoetic. The components of autopoetic systems "must be dynamically related in a network of ongoing interactions" (Maturana & Varela, 1992, pp. 43-44). That is, the components interact in ways which are continually changing, but which at the same time allow for the continuation of interactions so that the system continues to exist. In addition, the interactions of the components of an autopoetic system are responsible for the production of the components themselves. In summary, an autopoetic system is an emergent phenomenon arising from the interaction of components which, by way of these interactions, give rise to new interactions and new components, while preserving the system's autopoetic character."

David Reid
http://www.acadiau.ca/~dreid/enactivism/index.html

These "components of an autopoetic system" that are responsible for their own production sound a lot like the "abstract machines" of Deleuze and Guattari.

Btw, Varela (see above) was a Buddhist apprentice of Chogyam Trungpa, go figure.

Since we construct "reality" through this "enactivism", the Surrealist mode of production attempts to tamper with the "compents of [the] autopoetic system" in order to create *new* or *experimental* "realities" (or meta-contexts) synthetically, meta-contexts which may not have been possible by simply "roll[ing] back and forth in the same old ruts," as Lao Tze suggested when he said "Do not innovate."

Another way to understand Lao Tze when he said "Do not Innovate / Roll back and forth in the same ruts" is to take the understanding that all enactivism, or enacting of "reality" (environment we are faced with) is equally an act of enacting or creating.

This goes back to what I was trying to say here.

Kaos Maths as Tranzlitz

From The Broken Bowl



Document Z



We around here aren’t round, not most of us
Not to the degree one might fear if he was living here
After all it was the vibratory powers that made us so
And from there the leaning from one side of the room
To the other in hopes of replacing one space
With a new though pre-existing elasticity of time
So that sequences may be multilayered and drop
Like soft ice cream into a cone; not any flavor
But a likeness to that span between deaths when we sail
From one idea into another quite honestly, unconscious
Of the ease of sliding (a minor preparatory note).
Whoever it was that saw us finish should begin
To let a little of the stuffing out as we put away
Our casings from the factory jobs we are threatened with
Just in case the movement isn’t there to correct you
And you are out of your house on some early July day
Though when you look back on it, it is already November
And the whole chemistry of the place has changed
Back to a briefing made through a window pane
Don’t laugh at me. I’ve been here all my life
Which may not have been long, but is still virtual
And for now, the hourglass is stuck, so until
The next earthquake , or spending bill is signed into law
There might be something to run with that looks
More like you than you’d like to think—sorry
That it had to occur this way. More noise is what
We’ve invented, and that’s everything, final umbrella
Rolled into a baton for safe transport once dampened.
A fist of light. And a job one can get along in
Whoever wishes for more than that? And if they do
Boy oh boy I have a feeling they’re not going to like
This movie with its moderate to inane dialog
Action as terse and incomplete as any picnic basket
Without a jug of wine. Please pass the mushrooms.

There’s more than enough to go around through several
Of them have gone off to play. And the rest?
Well the rest are done-for as far as we’re concerned
We’ve already dumped their entire savings
Into the kitty, and parlayed out the cards
After all it’s a feeling thing, not something you can
Wrap with the we blanket of the intellect, just for
The sake of having something to say. I have some
Green soap to wash your mouths out with, just in case
It turns out to be your fault, or just your shape. You don’t
Need any more management now that it’s all
In a whip-like motion you’ve seen, you’ve all seen
Before the man of the house came home, brought building
Tools to add to the punishment. It’s not all repetition
But it feels like it, doesn’t it, the way it is
Administered in an orbital motion
Just before your teeth begin to loosen and the next room
Sprays something painful into your eyes. Suits the ones
Who’ve been doing it, whose music it is. They’ve ransacked
Just about everything that’s belonged to you.
And something more. Not that you must smoke in the dim light

Or go off on some protracted vehicle hunt
When all you really need to say is here in front of you
Still unable to remit. If you can get no solace
From that try imagining the circle in the square
Or a pair of reign deer drawing a flaming chariot
Through the sky or have I screwed up my mythologies
Again, their ragged twists of regalia stuck to
A fairly standard narrative form, but not this!
It made sure to leave no trace to paraphrase
No bow tie for critical thinking save an endorsement
Somewhat political in its formation over tea
And biscuits, some lemon aid for the new thinkers
And the roustabouts hanging on just wasting your time.
After all, it’s what we’re at heart engineered
To deliver, with a can of dried hearts, a flame
And a quiver of darts designed to reverse the flow
Of apologies pearling from your lips so that they
May later be taken up, and more aggressively
As to add a pounce to your nuanced eyebrow.

Some may cough at descriptions such as these
But others will fondly remember the righteous bump
As when hurling out of car windows after a bad drunk
One discovers an epiphany swallowed
Too many hours ago to relate the entire
Context to any new disciples along for the ride.
Though it is only bruising in a silent and pleasing way.
That was what fidelity was about. Those stormy
Afternoons when who-knows-whom we’d desire
So we’d keep the stack of records under the elm tree
Or conversely under the eaves when it was raining.
The drops would plinking against some hollowed out
Shingle or a leaf frizzled with filaments of desire
Or so the genome says. Nay, the righteous never liked
That explanation. It was too full of advanced
Sophistry. But so was their spinning of the many
Event horizons they’ve left in their wakes. Each one yearns
For something once accomplished by the body, now
Plastered into the past, or that which we call the past
But is no more than information written
Unreliably into our senses’ memory
How fleeting life seems because these flashes are remote
Intangible, though their effect on us may be quite
Operatic, grand, even destructive in their reach
Their grasp around our present moment, their bold
Insistence in molding what it is our eyes see
Into what the mind’s eye gravitates toward. Learn to love
Both the thing made and the think it itself, says the wise
Guy hanging from the chandelier. He smokes the last
Of your cigarettes, which you no longer need, since you quit
Nanoseconds ago and the nicotine fit
Hasn’t yet taken charge of the way you interpret
And communicate what you have learned. It may be
Nothing but the results of a spoiled crust of bread
Coated lightly with ergot mould. Wouldn’t you be
Lucky if that was all it was. Brown eyes seeing
Blue and green linings around everything within reach
And those at a distance have begun to shake, simply because
Living that way always reminded them of something
Even more ground down, artificial in it penchants
Toward nothing but the correct finger movements

But that didn’t mean they had to quit and even though
The artifacts of the movement had grown
Quite solitary in their organizational triumphs
There was a hooked tooth through everything they touched
That reminded us of an earlier swagger
Every blemish a caustic face on what we stood to believe in
And its presence flying out of our heads as if
To see the sky for the first time upon the backdrop
Of the moon. Wise preamble they tell us
And clever logic all the way up the clock for braying
The impossible while it’s still a hot topic
Always melding from ear to ear a storm
For rectifying the insouciant demonstration
To the architecture of mad love as it’s
Strewn in water colors across the comics. Someone
Winged and a dandy with a red cape inviting
You to feel comfortable with the level of crime
You’ve poured into your notebook, attempting
A wholesome sophistry of roses, daffodils
Burning incense, and more than anything
A sound and perfunctory reason that can
Parry any assault of multiple dimensions.
That’s where the goddess would come in, in those
Stiff cocktails of the past with their renditions
Of counter heroics circling the same themes
Like isotopes discharged from a carton of cigarettes

Fiery lips and repeated piano knock offs
Puff up the night into phantom parallels
Of everything you’ve been talking about. A girdle
Of fear the first face you were inclined to believe
As you sat in yesterday’s demitasse night
Injuring yourself on your friendly workmanship
Was the coalman’s daughter, shoveling herself
Into your straight and narrow tourniquet of a path
To have a go at the bull run while you fled
Into a mountain of shattered teacups, wounding yourself
Appropriately, as to avoid another spillage
Before the republic was turned over to the riff raff
Of the neighborhood. There you could embrace
And in that posture, hypothesize a new day.

I know I shouldn’t be bringing this up at this point
But the Cyclops on the staircase demands that everything
In your briefcase is turned upside down, only then
Will the true meaning of the paragraph come to the fore.
It’s been circling around your left index fingertip
Every time you move. It knows all your afflictions
And fantasies of life at other junctures, where meaning
Lacks not the invocation of its premise, but meanders
In a beefed-up suit, not unlike the mobsters you’ve met
Dining in Chinatown. They, of course, were in several
Gradations, from sparkles of light, to the thin film
Over your teeth after too many days worrying.
Perhaps a hangover on the beach, eating corn chips and
Frozen pizza. They don’t have any more impressive
Thoughts, so for the time, being what it is, you could
Either collect your things and march down the runway
Or continue in good faith, though the only good
Reason to follow in uncertainty would be to hold
Fast to faith in good faith where propriety
Should perhaps lead you elsewhere to some other
Defunct cafeteria, for instance, in some
Dead metaphysician’s shop. There you can order
A dirty water dog or two, belch a few times, make fog
In the icy air left by the enlightenment.

But excuses will bare not teeth around here
Not that anyone will tell you that at a party
Friends will beg you to stay, and rivals will try
To trip you out the door. It doesn’t make sense
To blame anyone, since anyone could muster up
A sizable force the same as you can with one
Exception: you have a right to your body and its alloys
The same as anyone with a shield full of grommets
And holes hoisted upon it to promote
Permeability. Its invisible dance
To characterize, though volumes could be spoken
About it, on the air, between battles, inside
A sentence with aluminum siding, a tarred roof
For viewing comets. The education system
You’ve been brought to, smiles urbanely with a straw
With a peaked end at your throat. It tells you it has
Known members of your family for some time.
But this is the first opportunity to dance
With the mother lode of false sorrow such as yours
Truly, the operator behind the rice paper screen
Upon which denizens of bleeding banners flock
With razor weapons, to tear each other’s flesh
Or skin them alive. A political thing to do, like movies
Like standing in line all night as Christmas shopping
Draws people to the mall really only to buy
A laptop for themselves, half off, to unscramble an eye
Boisterous cadences and rattling on the top
Of a can will always remind you of your meekness
In the presence of those more extroverted
And sure of themselves, dumb as they may be
Clear as the plate glass face of a fish tank
Barbed tongues and fake fire sizzling to exeunt
When it is you yourself you have failed avoiding

This is bullshit. Standing in line is not therapy
Neither is trying to fit my ass into this saddle
It’s been worn down before. But I can’t find her.
She was at the door when I left for the office
But now in outer space. Mythology is a bummer
Waiting to happen to your cadaver. Tote it
Around with you wherever you go and the lime
In your drink will remind you of life; too late
It’s too late because you haven’t been down
The chimney. In spades, brother, in spades.
Flying through the wall with saw blades spinning
On your fingertips. That’s how you imagine
Leaving your job, and on some ornate vehicle
Unrecognized by the people screaming by the hole
You left. I try to shake off this tremor, but it’s been there
Since I began taking advice from the accelerator.
Whole tribes of them howling nervously intoxicated
By their won nervous systems. I’ve got a way
Of playing cards that will undermine the government.
Ironic pastiches to the inconsolable
Instead of monkey hands fondling hand grenades
What’s with the new congress? Don’t they have any
Determination to win? Skateboards or ironing boards
For everyone depending on their commitment
To the same ideals as everyone. This is not
Going to win me any awards. This is a bad
Example of what I am capable of, but don’t
Confuse that with cold leftover pizza Mr. Ad-
Ministrator. Don’t’ confuse me with your digital
Dental floss can kill you Mr. Pile Your Weapons
Up On Your Desk To Intimidate Me, sir, I will
Bite off sections of your head put them in
A wooden frame and sell them to a hedge fund, Mr. X
V President. There are a few questions which state wears
The most glitter in its teeth where do you believe
Believing came from are you a captive of your
Audience or does it only hurt when you bathe?
I can ask these because I’ve turned my body to sound
It is in eighth notes and sixteenths and triplets and
Various forms of collateral, from banks bleeding
Out their mercy holes. I had a role in it
A quiet, lumbering step loaded with assorted
Energies. Quite the flame thrower you are, is that
Kimchee you’ve been eating? I need to start my car.

Find out tonight whether it is really a pattern
Or if seeing is the jurisdiction of some
Other sensory mechanics, a passion for panic
One may presume, a handle to some other dimension
Of psychic franchise ready to have you for spare change
That’s the exhumed part of the fable, anyway
Whatever’s left is as much a mystery as where
The buckshot goes. Out of the pipe like steam and into
Appearance, a friendly warmth, a quiet penetration
Somewhat like affection except by the mode of its chaste
Benediction. I’m really in love with your entry
The way it wiggles its way past the gate searching
For embellishments on either side of the hand
Are quick movements, toned in a circle
With distinguishing marks to make out virility
We marvel at the pencil pocking, the three-pronged
Equivalences barred at the opening of your
Action planned was severe rental phenomenon
And now possible to record. The movement backfired.
Religion is itself like that, a few scrambled heads
The rest of us starving for a music unmuddled
By insurance analysts. And as the market
Betrayed itself, by trying to know thyself in ways
That made masturbation seem a public service
In comparison, mega-church after mega-church
Grew out of the cesspools of self-immolation
Where the bugger of the underground lay in wait
For souls to capsize into its one economy
And sucks them off from the podium for a few cents
Thrown into the offering basket. I have done this before
In past lives. It is not a good idea, something
People I know will be willing to kill you about
Forgive me yonder diner club members. I have eaten
Something a little unsettling for you youngsters
Trying to win by alignment to your personal
Welfare state, your name or enter it into
The bucket full of apostrophes of ownership
Without the zinging final consonant attaching
You to the object of your obsession
I have borrowed a few of the drums you’ve beaten
Upon and they only sound hollow in my hands
Could be the thumbtacks in my fingertips are not
Sunk deep enough to matter. I am not
An actual victim, but a modeler of
Victimhood seeking out a completer sound
Which may in the end be better achieved through something
Besides these plastic wrapped mortification practices
Though the purely cerebral tends to narrow
My larynx by the end of the day, making me hoarse
And squeaky as science fiction allergic reactions
And while I try to be as redactive as possible
There are reasons why editorial pursuits
Can begin to know themselves as progenitors
Of the implausible, for an idea may be wrong
But a feeling is always might. There is a pond
We all live in. Perhaps alone. Perhaps sustained
By others. I am sorry you have to live this way
On the surface it doesn’t hurt, only beneath
The green haze of the drug, the incessant action
Bromides for the skill set, for vacillation between
The heart and the hard-headed minotaur-like marking
No, I didn’t say marketing, not yet, but I might as well
Have, since any crucial difference is due, is harkened
Only through the dark of framing. And once cut from
The black of the background an objet loses its glitter
Loses its toy qualities and you no longer love it.

But behold the benevolent panther. Rocks move
Out of its path as it drives down the sandy parts
Of this confused tangle of secretive meditations
Secretive because they ignore each other’s
Highest aspirations. More so because
They are lying in a circle—all unframed parts
Without an instruction manual lying around
To make useful these lying-to-each-other pieces
And the sky it suffers abdominal pain
It begins to shift light and drop water
In hopes that you will recognize its feeling
After all, it feels too. Who is bold enough
To enter from beneath its hips to sense its clear
Aspiration, and to say it doesn’t feel as you do?
Young panther, scraping across the rocks, bounding
A heresy, a fist of light, into the sky’s mouth
Condom of clear wrap, of air wrap of argument
Made of pieces arranged in a row. Somewhere
Within that above is opinion, a choice word
Grilling, a word tribe, trying to bend back the outcome
Its natural toes and the mud it has landed in.
Try not to be too simple, dark hand. You are not
Letting us into your heard. We are aware of you.
Behold benevolent panther. You are an unguent
On the mouth of this trapezoidal needling
The oblique rocket ship that solidifies our love
As something more than tuna casserole
Sweet darling madness, my chum and apprenticeship
Summoning up the slag of the old spacecraft
Strew over the Mojave desert. Young predator
Benevolent killer and tearer of meat
I have choice words for you, a voice of ragtag
Emblems, decals, for you, a feeling I had met
You before in another life, one of pain and drug-like
Spasms of gleeful violence. Daggered laughter
In the heart, in the syntax of your saying what
In its moment could ever have been and to find you
Here, beside my bed in a tangle of soiled clothing
Searching for a scrap to eat, an arm, a leg
Because it was you who brought us here, and you
Who we belong to, if you could loosen yourself
From my grip, from my choke hold around
What turns out to be a fuel line, a recipe book
A collection of flavors, a memory, forgotten cause.

Simple Foundations

The class which has the means of material production at its disposal, has control at the same time over the means of mental production, so that thereby, generally speaking, the ideas of those who lack the means of mental production are subject to it. . . . The individuals composing the ruling class possess among other things consciousness, and therefore think. Insofar, therefore, as they rule as a class and determine the extent and compass of an epoch, it is self-evident that they do this in its whole range, hence among other things rule also as thinkers, as producers of ideas, and regulate the production and distribution of the ideas of their age: thus their ideas are the ruling ideas of the epoch. –Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, The German Ideology (1845-46)

Let's talk of a system that transforms all the social organisms into a work of art, in which the entire process of work is included... something in which the principle of production and consumption takes on a form of quality. It's a Gigantic project. - Joseph Beuys

Seduction is not the locus of desire...but of giddiness, of the eclipse, of appearance and disappearance, of the scintillation of being. It is an art of disappearing, whereas desire is always the desire for death. - Jean Baudrillard