lI — Il

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2012-01-31T02:29:00.000-06:00

. | | .

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Beijing: Pictures I Stole

2012-01-30T19:37:00.001-06:00

Iraq Skype

2012-01-17T14:11:00.000-06:00

2011-12-21T22:39:00.000-06:00

Nate

2011-11-11T22:54:00.001-06:00

I i i i I / I i i i I

2011-10-16T05:02:00.001-05:00

2011-09-08T02:16:00.000-05:00

The octopus had been rushed, so rushed, that, "hork hork hork" gagged the octopus, that the tip of the arm had gotten stuck in the swallowing octopus esophagus, "hork... hork...," the octopus was unable to throw up, octopuses can only swallow one direction, "heeerrrrrrkk," it squealed, it was trapped, swallowing itself, "hork hork hork hork, silence," choked and then suffocated the octopus.

2011-08-29T20:08:00.002-05:00

2011-08-09T01:59:00.002-05:00

"America"

Okpo Land 옥포랜드

2011-08-04T00:17:00.002-05:00

In 1999, an amusement park went out of business in Okpo-Dong, a port city on the Korean island of Geoje. Nobody tore it down, so for a decade, people have crawled through a hole in the fence to drink beer, play with broken carousel horses, break things, light butane bombs and start fires. Here are some photos of it.

Bumper Car under grid
the stars come out
overgrown ride
horse in bumper car
unicorn crash
horses in a hole
Horse in White Horn
unicorn
coaster in the distance
doorway
shattered house
hard penis
horse in rubble
plaque of bear
landscape around
View of Rocket
zoom cars
rocket ship
the View from Okpo Land
man in crow's nest
coaster overtaken
A decayed illustration
A hole
penis in hole
viking boat
entry
exit
a sign
bombed out
Lion
punch machine
stars
landscape
ducks in a row
off kilter duck
weeds in the ceiling
weeds overtake sun house
View of the Port
overgrown track
broken horse

what is going on, birthday

2011-07-25T23:59:00.000-05:00

a naked man, missing home

2011-07-24T06:12:00.000-05:00

2011-07-22T00:53:00.000-05:00

black eye boy, with tie

2011-07-05T19:18:00.001-05:00

Internet Commenter, with Aurelio Madrid

2011-07-04T01:08:00.006-05:00

"Internet Commenter" is a new series where we invite writers, artists and thinkers to discuss a topic of their choosing in this space. In our first installment, artist, writer and thinker, Aurelio Madrid writes about the french Marxist, Louis Althusser.

reading althusser ..

There is no royal road to science, and only those who do not dread the fatiguing climb of its steep paths have a chance of gaining its luminous summits.

— Karl Marx 1872

…for IlllllllllllllI

To read Louis Althusser one has to immediately get past the biographical fact that he murdered his wife Hélène, well, he strangled her while he was lovingly massaging her neck one night. This fateful event happened sometime back in the early ‘80’s and it allegedly had to do with Athusser’s ‘mental illness’ and so, he did his time secluded away in a French psychiatric hospital writing his memoirs, his career was shot and his hard won gravitas almost faded away. We can attach importance to this fact, or we can coyly choose to ignore it. If we pay attention to him, we are forced to see many odd permutations. Strange to the effect that here we have a strict anti-humanist thinker, who besides that, worked strenuously to degrade idealism via Marx’s materialism, this too, while considering the fact that one of Althusser’s main contributions to contemporary philosophy was to identify ideology as an intrinsic part of the life of the subject. One freezing labyrinth leads to another and suddenly we realize that there is no subject, or object, ideology is given a subordinate role to the all-important knowledge of science, epistemology is swiftly undermined, add to all this shifting his uncanny anti-historicism and many other covert demarcations. Here we have these intellectual cuttings, better staged in this case as elaborate theoretical strangulations of anything the average proletariat has to hang on to, struggling to comprehend these mind numbing configurations and after this perplexity, forget fomenting a revolution anytime soon. Althusser’s metaphorically bourgeois hammer and sickle must’ve been hidden in his desk drawer, never to hammer a nail, never to cut a sheaf of wheat. With all due respect and mockery done with, Althusser’s realistic hard labor was theory and reading theory to define, refine and radicalize the science (historical materialism) of Marx. Then the obvious sweated labor is ours too, that is, if we choose to distill Althusser’s toil from Marx’s and/or if we choose to read Althusser to find Marx again. If we are to call his work a labyrinthine labor we’ll have to see that it’s full of false dead-ends. The false dead-ends are suggested by the choking off of whatever we were sure of before we read a line of Althusser, before we really started to get our hands dirty with what he’s trying to emphasize within the grand edifice of Marxism. If we already had any notion that Marx was cold, we’ll seek to perceive of Althusser as frozen. His are the icy realms of hard-line communist philosophical theory. Reading Althusser forces one to search for ideological-feel-good-propaganda elsewhere. With him the gleaming possibility of diving into G.W.F. Hegel starts to sound enticing. Yet, in Althusser’s particular rarified insistence we’re not looking for easy assurance, instead we long for a demanding wisdom, even if we have to succumb to the ascetic rigors of his practice, while reaching deep from within the perilous denouement of his words to find it.

althusser doily by aurelio madrid

Ideology

Now we read. Society is based on the conditions of production, known in Marx’s topology of the state as the infrastructure. The conditions of production are “1. The productive forces [and] 2. the existing relations of production,” as they are produced and reproduced. The means of production must be reproduced in continuity, in order to produce one must set up and continue the means of production. Will all of this in place, one will still need to bring in the productive forces from which labor power can be found and we’ll add that labor power is not reproduced from within the structure of the ‘firm’ hiring the workers, yet labor power is maintained by wages as the material means to keep the worker healthy and capable enough to return to work and produce the labor needed. Man does not live on bread alone and a well fed worker doesn’t always make for a skilled worker, The skills are usually not provided for by the ‘firm’, this normally happens outside the workplace. The skills necessary to find a good paying job are often found in the educational system. Not only will the worker need special skills to perform the job with competency, he’ll also need be adapted to “…the rules of the established order…,” civic, moral and the like. In short, the worker needs to be in a voluntary “…submission to the ruling ideology…” For Althusser we’ll say that the worker is subjected to the ruling ideologies. A worker not only has to be groomed, healthy, well-fed and skilled and not only does he have to be subjected to the prevailing ideology of the workplace, he also needs to be subjected to the prevailing ideologies of his public life and his private/family life. These are some of the requirements to reproduce the conditions of production for the state/society.

In a Marxist sense, exploitation need not be forceful. A well turned properly indoctrinated worker is much better than one who thinks otherwise. The importance of ideology to maintain the status quo cannot be overstated concerning the workplace and everywhere else. From here, Althusser has taken us to Marx’s topology of the state as represented by the “infrastructure and the superstructure.” Infrastructure is roughly defined as the base, the working mode of production with the economic base and their relationships (the proletariat is found here). The superstructure is double tiered and defined as ‘politico-legal’ (which might also include the arts, the media, education &c.). Topping it all off is ideology (religion, politics &c.). The bottom infrastructure floor supports the upper floors and that cannot be supported without a base. This is more or less the Marxist state/society topology a.k.a. the ‘state apparatus’ and this is to predicate the state’s power. State apparatus and state power are divided with regard to the alliance of power between all the tiers, re: the ruling class’s power over the (now middle and) working class. Althusser brings in the term ‘repressive state apparatus’ (RSA) to show one way the state reinforces power by means of real and implied force. The RSAs could be the basic brute force brought in by the police, military, prisons &c. The famous ‘ideological state apparatus’ another Althussarian refinement of Marx, is brought in. The ideological state apparatus (ISA) is set up as institutional and non-institutional entities such as: religion, politics, education, the media, the family unit and so on. The predominate way power is implemented is by means of ideology, this is what separates it from the RSA that is governed by ideology too, but it uses actual (and implied) force to execute power. The way that ideology executes power for Althusser is named: interpellation. We’ll look to define this term shortly.

Meanwhile, both apparatuses implement power by means of having real consequences, should one deviate. Class struggles manifest in the ISAs, and a revolution cannot happen unless the ISA is controlled by the revolutionaries, that is, by those who wish to seize control. Althusser then asks “…how is the reproduction of the relations of production secured?” In other words, more generally speaking, how is a working day to day operation of a state’s relations of production controlled?—with ideology. “Ideology…always express[s] class positions” Also “ideology has no history.” That last bizarre claim that ideology has no history, means that if we take out the particular historical framework and just look at ideology in the broadest meaning of the word. then we can see ideology as a naked concept that has continued to work in much the same way for 1,000’s of years, history in and of itself doesn’t delimit the way ideology conceptually ‘is’ in the world, but it does affect the particular ways it has manifested itself throughout history. Althusser proposes that because ideology is merely an imaginative act that can determine the way things are, differing from how they are shown by hard science (and certainly before science), then ideology is “omni-historical,” thus, meaning non-historical. Althusser is fond of bringing in Freud and Lacan’s unconscious to speak of ideology much in the same way it is thought of as being ‘eternal’. The ever crafty Althusser wants us to notice that the usual way we apprehend the world is prone to idealizations. Abstractions the mind has to make are often said to be ideological. In some twisted way of reading, we are encouraged to have a non-ideological ‘reality’ check on our epistemological ways of apprehension. “The whole empiricist process of knowledge lies in fact in an operation of the subject called abstraction.” If ideology is imaginary, then man’s relationship becomes distorted and must be viewed as such: an ideological distortion, probably this is meant in the best and the worst way. We are told that if the ideology exits in the apparatuses, then it by extension will exist in its practices, from this we come to “ideology as material.” Reality is not, from a scientific stand-point, embedded with ideology, instead we embed reality with our ideas, say for example building a church and/or carving a wooden toy, both are ideological acts made material. Practices are the way ideology handles our ‘reality’. The practiced way by which ideology is enacted in every sphere of life naturally activates ideology into action, this action and its results are material. Althusser has to fold ideology into any/all practices, this does not exist away from the subject. One is automatically practicing and subjected to ideology. Ideology is taken from its pride-of-place to a position where it’ll be of Althusser’s full advantage to use for frequent target practice.

Again, if the subject is subjected to ideology then the subject is “constitutive to all ideology.” “Man is an ideological animal by nature.” That we are subjected to an ideal, denotes a certain obviousness, it can be deduced that this is a primary effect of a given ideology. We must see that an ideology is ‘obvious’ before we’ll submit to it. Don’t be mistaken, this doesn’t necessarily happen as a total act of free-will, as ideologies are known to have an unconscious effect on subjects. When we shake hands, this is an ideology of sorts, a common courtesy that formalizes a greeting. To actively not shake my hand would be considered rude and not ‘playing’ into the ideology of the meeting.

“All ideology hails or interpellates concrete individuals as concrete subjects.” The individual is the subject, room for the subject to be an individual is subjected even before birth. The unborn baby already has a growing range of ideologies imposed on him before he takes his first breath. That we are subjected to an ideology is predetermined into the very structure of any ideology. Althusser’s analogy is that of a police officer hailing you from across the street, typically the subject will assume that it’s he who has done something wrong. We assume ourselves into his hailing whether he’s actually hailing us or not. This assumption of ours is a surprisingly simple way to illustrate that ideology has as its function to ‘hail’ or interpellate the subject into its domain, into conformity, and usually the ideological message is the promise of a better life. Often those who do the interpellating, those who tactfully impose their ideology onto others, keep enforcement outside of what’s actually happening, this is what Althusser calls “denegration” This is where it’s proposed and often believed that this or that ideology is not ideological, re.: ‘Ideology is for those uptight ideologues!’ This often disguises the real ideology underneath. Those that profess to be non-ideological are usually the worst ideologues around. ‘This isn’t an ideology, this is the truth’, is a classic denegration strategy.

An entire cluster of implications, interpellations and questions arise from Althusser’s theories and we can address only a few here. Even though the title of structuralist may be contested, we can’t help but observe that he’s showing how ideology is structured within the state. We are forced to ignore the personal life of our subjected individual. Importantly, once we are presented with a structure where strong and weak ideologies are all vying to subject us into their programs, made clear with religion, politics and with the media, while identifying that all are entrenched with interpellation, we can more easily identify the strategy of ideology, thanks to Althusser. The entertainment sector is constantly interpellating us with it’s lifestyle ‘choices’, who to admire, how to admire, its tyranny of beauty, when to laugh and judge those who are not like us, &c. At the very least Althusser’s theory should elicit an active awareness of the ISAs that have a grip on us and at the very worst it should show how little control we have over our choices. This active awareness is a way we can turn to others, with a concern for how we choose to avoid or to activate our interpellation onto them. The main difficulty will be slowly inching away from Althusser’s non-individualistic subjecting specifications.

Anti-humanism

While we looked at Althusser’s ideology we were able to recognize that the so-called free will of the subjected individual was in question. Althusser’s former student and long time friend Badiou writes about him: “Where the concept of philosophy is concerned Althusser’s tactical operations are primarily operations of hollowing-out, suppression and negation.” The position of the concrete individual is not spared these extractions, for these are the negations that’ll turn into anti-humanism.

In the late ‘50’s, the U.S.S.R., after Stalin, Marxist theory was undergoing a multitude of revisions. This shift is known as de-Stalinization, starting with a speech Khrushchev gave in ‘56 to denounce Stalin’s ‘cult of personality’ and to finally announce his many abuses. A number of European intellectuals were inspired to ‘humanize’ Marx, using his pre-1845 writings. Remember that these writings were soaked in Feuerbach and Hegel’s philosophy—namely their ideology. In the practice of refining Marx, Althusser had to divide the early Marx from the post-1845 work, the scientific-dialectical-historical Marx had to be without the ideological excesses of Feuerbach and Hegel. This re-rendering of Marx is said by Althusser to be an ‘epistemological break’ and by extension an anti-humanist practice. Marx is cited as saying in the 1880’s: “My analytical method does not start from man but from the economically given social period.” If anything is said, Althusser was ‘for’ Marx: his politics, his philosophy, his history and of course, his unforgiving science.

The epistemological break is a fundamental shift for Marx’s historical materialism (the science of history) and the dialectical materialism (the theory of scientific practice). The term ‘epistemological break’ is adapted from Bachelard and is said to represent the vivid breaking away from idealism into the brave new world of historical materialism—a new way of thinking. Let’s quickly remind ourselves that for Althusser humanism is an ideal. To work through this and to examine it is “…to define the theoretical value of the concept.” Ideology is not scientific, therefore not pure materialism. If humanism is ideological and not scientific, then it cannot provide us with any basic scientific knowledge. This is how to read late Marx. Backing up to the early Marx, where, according to enlightenment ideals: ‘reason = freedom’ and this meant that the beautiful demands of reason provided for man’s conception of himself as free. We have been instructed that the delights of ‘reason = freedom’ didn’t last forever and in the reasoned promises of the privileged, the stringent ideals often didn’t equate to freedom for all. The challenges of reason against the sufferings of the less-fortunate resulted in a disillusionment toward the then glorified stature of rationality, this is known as alienation (thanks to Feuerbach). From this alienation a revolution might be called for and “the revolution is the very practice of logic immanent in alienation: it is the movement in which criticism … recognizes its arms in the proletariat.” The proletariat is armed with philosophy. From here, after 1845, we discover the radical Marx who let go of all “…theoretical pretensions of every philosophical humanism.” For Marx idealist philosophy is bourgeois philosophy. Sure, as we’ve noted earlier, ideology is essential in practice, but now it’s degraded inside the hard-core theory of materialism. Idealism for Marx and Althusser must be knocked down, this is part of Althusser’s radicalization of Marx. To do this he had to make the break we spoke of and he had to de-emphasize man’s essence. To emphasize man as an individual subject, means to automatically assume an essence and if that essence is said to be idealized, then it needs to go down a notch, to a less vaunted place. This is the individual subject without an essence, thus obviating the subject as an individual, “…Marx’s materialism excludes the empiricism of the subject…” Probably one of Althusser’s most disturbing sentences along this train of thought states: “It is impossible to know anything about man except on the absolute precondition that the philosophical (theoretical) myth of man is reduced to ashes.” This claim is from a man who strangled his wife. With this incredibly harsh statement of his, all ‘pretensions’ about Althusser’s warmth as a person have vanished.

Anti-humanism is announced and we observe that humanism as an ideology hasn’t disappeared, it’s been dethroned. Althusser has to grudgingly include the necessity of ideology, as it really can’t be thrown in the trash heap. “Ideology then is [still] the expression of the relation between men and their ‘world’…” But, accordingly it’ll never express ‘reality’ on Althusser’s precise scientific terms. We’ve seen that humanism promises equality and happiness for all, as humanism contains the wish to move from the “inhuman to the human.” Looking at Althusser’s anti-humanism, it’s promised that we can begin to fight off its advances and get down to work with the “possibility of scientific knowledge.” Pushing down idealism and making room for science is the revolutionary cry for whom? The impoverished proletariat, or the unlovely bourgeois capitalist? Today, we’ll have to say both. Another question is: why is any concordance between science and ideology off the table? There has to be value in looking into their alliance. Our demands of ideology and science need not always to be a question of how the two are opposed.

In closing, let’s give full credit to this frozen scholar named Althusser, thawed here for just a moment, defrosted so as to feel his brackish radicalism, where we were semi-comforted over his problematic words and where we too labored for hours over many pages. Yes, this was a ‘torsion’ of reading a once living philosopher, he who will be forever indebted to his master, as we were then reading Louis Althusser, who was then reading Karl Marx.

Cruel Poems, Contest Winners

2011-07-02T10:57:00.003-05:00

A month and a half ago, I was struck by the most unbelievable boredom. I had read poems for a few hours, contemporary ones, in nice journals, or on the poorly formatted websites of journals that were chic enough to wait for a writer to finish graduate school before considering their submission. These "well-wrought" poems all share a kind of flat affect, through which they express a bizarre cliche of treacle, humanism and amorality. Things were bad sometimes, the poems said, but someone is sorry about that, and we can think on it a while, they express distance more than anything. Good for distance, distances are worth mentioning, but not to exclusion. I wondered about the things that are closest, particularly those gleeful and shameful impulses that are given such full expression in all art-forms that are still alive. Cruelty came to mind, and so I called for a contest, of poets, to produce a work on the theme, as it struck them.

The poems that came in were wildly different. Some considered cruelty as an idea. A few missed my point and wondered what it would be like to think poorly of cruelty and cruel people. Two of them seemed actually anti-semitic. Several of my favorites are included in the zine, "Cruel Poems", published here and elsewhere on the internet. However, two stood out to me, and made me feel genuinely honored that they had been submitted. Both poets, Chris Schaeffer and Pauline Veatch, will be awarded a 1,000원 bill, along with a personal e-card.

catgut
by Pauline Veatch

cigarette at the corner of 87th and falcon
this fictionalized account of
how you managed to make eye contact with me
like eggshells, like husks of spiders, like rosin
your dried out dead tongue dipped in ink
and the claws i've made of your teeth
and you know i have no inside anymore
i'm packing my bones with snow and i've sharpened my hips to points
a crow and a gull and now i'm using every part of myself to pick you clean
all his panes were shattered mirrors
all his panes were shadows and ink-soaked

Impartial Third Party Adjudicator on Nixon v. Socrates
by Chris Schaeffer

Note down note down shift in temperature/humidity on
Respective coasts of Athens and Manhattan. The lightning
Whelk spooning inwards, proceeding from the left.

They both coughed and coughed until their bodies
Caved in. The plastic cups came apart. Gosh,
They were really laughing their guts out.

They were really big piles of shit in the end.
They were really human shit. The nurse
Notes this down on damp paper. Both indicate
With hand gestures a refusal to resuscitate.

From the meniscus noted down the surface tension
On the blue-white cheek, prod out cilia and cilia and

The last feeble choke and graft of language. Child
In overall-shorts smirking at both funerals at once.
Appearing over battlefield. Missing teeth. Freckled.

Oh! AND Oh! Hey! That old death grammar and
Oh hey the length of spiny appendages.

Buff molecules swole so dense with papillae
Who could say what eye or tit they would become
So hard with muscles so round rippling dots—

Oh yeah and so also the flexing gland in the heart! Nope.

Which it observed and it observed that it was into your music
And moved from building to building threshing with flails.

And it moved from building to building trying hard to grow
A wing or third finger. And it clung to the lowest level
Like limpets, male and sleek as white lung mantle

And the end of holding on to bones and skins.
Another lower whelk in deeper water. Some guy’s
Bare sheathes stir the shit up, throw the net
Out deeper where the giant kelps are patient and vain.

Pat says Oh Baby I’m really ‘lichen’ this new autosynthetic
Symbiotic haircut! Menelaus slaps her hard across the mouth,
Draws blood. Laugh/Applause. It’s a wise child
That dips his feet in the sea. It’s a beautiful girl
That dips her finger in the cold black tea.

It’s a disgraced former linebacker wading out with his organs
Unspooling green and broad, sucking light and going glad.
All around the world more and more are voting yes
For algae, building to building yes
That old wave packet sound !!

Cruel Poems

2011-06-30T10:09:00.002-05:00

Download printable pdf

Questions and Notes, Resolved or Unresolved, Regarding Determinism

2011-05-27T19:07:00.001-05:00

Given absolute determination, what is the effect on a system, of the adequate awareness of that determinism?
Given a partial determination, where it is constitutionally unclear which events are determined or not, what is the effect of an awareness of determinism?
Given a partial determination, where it is clear which events are determined or not, what is the effect of an awareness of determinism?
Given a totally non-determined system, what is the effect of an hypothesis of determinism?

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What is the effect of inability to concieve a non-material, non-practical or non-relational substance, that is, outside of material and force, on the possibility of will? What is the style of realism in various determinisms?
Is it possible for me to have a non-deterministic position?
Is the Spinozan, Heideggerian, Nietzschean position of aligning a pseudo-dualistic mental substance with the absolutely determined material, in the Nietzscheo-Spinozan sense, to "will only what is necessary", can this position be made coherent with the determinism to which it is a response? Doesn't determinism move further, relying as it does on a mono-plane of existence?

---

What is the role of forgetting, how complete a power is it? What would a fault or non-faculty look like?
What is the effect of mechanical failure? Obviously determination doesn't consider an idealized, working body, but that of the unworking body is determined also. What about probabilistic failures? Probability is given, particularly in the use and misuse of quantum descriptions, to represent available freedoms. Is this silly, because that a shift occurs or a probability is assigned is irrelevant to the willing of one probability or another, that is, the antique religious notion, or is it silly because probability can only capture the state of perception, not the state of the material objects?
These suggest that determinism refuses refutation by traditional metaphysical claims, is the power between things considered "caused", even if those causes are outside knowledge or possible knowledge. Can it be overcome by mere "amor"?
If determination is metaphysics, existing as the cause of causes, growing whenever prodded by questioning or analysis, will falls neatly into the mystical-religious, a diminishing infinity of possible locations that insists itself existing yet disappearing everywhere it is sought. Does this suggest that determination or will is just a bad question?

---

What is the name for the knowledge of a cause as a thing interacting with the cause itself? Examples: Marxism on Capitalism, sentience and then meaning giving practices occurring in a scientific universe, Psychoanalysis as a hypothesis, the "Empirico-Transcendental doublet" of human finitude.
Is it important that the knowledge relate to itself, or is it merely a "knowledge effect of a being" that occurs?

Announcing A New Writing Contest: Write the Cruelest Poem

2011-05-16T10:31:00.002-05:00

Poetry has a tendency toward monotheism, morality and ethics. Even consequentially cruel poetry, nationalist and fascist poetries, are rarely overtly cruel. Compose instead an overtly cruel poem, in this gap.

Rules:
Write a poem of under 10,000 words.
You can submit up to five poems.
Poems will be judged on cruelty and quality.
Entries will be accepted until midnight May 31st, KST.
Winners will receive 1000₩ and be published in the web magazine, "The Shitizens".
In addition, winners will receive a personalized "e-card".

Send submissions to thegrza at g mail dot com, with your name, address and poem in a format.

2011-05-16T02:25:00.001-05:00

2011-05-12T11:36:00.000-05:00

2011-05-10T04:39:00.000-05:00

ddaerida

2011-05-08T08:43:00.009-05:00

give ((a person)) a sound thrashing
hit ((a person)) hard
beat ((a person)) to a jelly
beat ((a person)) up

pommel away at ((a person))
rain blows on ((a person))

beat ((a person)) black and blue
strike [beat] ((a person)) on the head
box ((a person) on the ear
give ((a person)) a lick on the ear
give ((a person)) a nice slap in the face

She spanked her child on the buttocks.
I struck him on the chin with my fist.

2011-05-02T06:39:00.001-05:00

scurr in
dog skin
brick ye finger on an hide
pry an take an bone

SCURR in—
split ye nockle
scrap out rib
fast, in dogsskin.

scurr hard in
hack an curv

Hypothetical manifesto against "Becoming"

2011-05-02T05:15:00.001-05:00

The most unreal state of things, a supposed, unseen, state of becoming.
Assumed from difference between been and is, projecting will be, and will have been.
Instead of becoming, an invisible unbroken line, shaped like a snake in a rabbit's warren
the other image is of a frame of film, and also, an earthquake.
In this state, there is a punctuated break between any given state
and the next state, in the next state, things existing differently.

The habit of things to fail to persist while at the same time
not undergoing any becoming is the fuel for an unease,
an unease leading to composed description, telling the thing that is immune to punctuation,
the growing unease that a thing is in its way throughout its change
grows from the story about invisible movement or movement too-quick-to-the-eye
and supposed, leading to composed description, provoked unease,
the weight of the unease provoking its own name.

Compelled, the telling, ignores the lines inbound across the surface of the frame,
where the frame is compulsing, drifting in distance with supposed weight.

Dogs run through the camp, where the starved bodies laid together in a line.
They play and leap, and begin to eat at the soft flesh around the mouth, the stomach, the genitals.

USA

2011-05-02T02:32:00.000-05:00

"Can we see his head and the open wounds, like we saw Saddam's?" moaned the mass of people convulsing with new news. "Can we all stand in the light of a corpse?" they whimpered, the cadaver-worshiping pagans.
‎"A dead body!" went up the shrieks, about a body they'd forgotten, now that it's dead, surfaced dormant hatred. "A dead body," went up the shrieks, "Beat it, shoot it!"
‎"Oohoo! Does the body still bleed?" squealed the mass of people, licking their teeth, "Can you make the body bleed for me? Shake the body! Shake loose some blood, for me!"

‎"What happened to his cock, did they burn it, and stuff it in his mouth, and make it waggle like a tongue?" asked the news anchor.
‎"I hope they burned it, his cock, before they shoved it in his mouth." said a man, who was breaking out in occasional giggle fits, while watching the television.

Speech by the Dead Christ, from the World's Edifice, that there is no God

2011-04-24T09:10:00.000-05:00

Lanterns hung on houses, from the beams and eaves, dripping wax onto the pavement into off-white, mounded plateaux. "Inside every lantern!" had went up shouts, "Inside every breath!"

As the lights withdrew, left to melt into pitch, the men were keeping themselves away in their dim rooms, cabling the last of the wine into their mouths until exhaustion overtook them. The boys, they are driven to run more quickly in the dark, and in straight lines, they were escaping, scattering from their houses out onto the streets and then out onto the grass fields, until they were collapsed into sleep together, bodies wound, hair matted together. Only the women and girls were in their beds tonight, talking themselves into a drowse, like paper winding off the spool, their sentences slow and rambling into slumber. Now the streets are bare and the lanterns burn in quiet, left to melt to nubs, their light withdraws.

Only I was still awake, in my study. The silence after a religious festival refreshes me; I had stayed indoors for the day, had set a single lantern out my window to avoid being ostentatious, that is, to avoid abuse. The open window let in the smell of roasted meat, and I let it saturate my mouth and nose before eating a simple pot of rice from an unadorned bowl. Even philosophers concede, where simplicity can take strength from excess, it should.

From my window, out over the hiss and tone of my dying candle, I could see across the main road, and into the square, over a tumbledown statue of a heron, patiently staring toward the far churchyard . The town was lit like the waking moon, with a softness, that implies that this night will remain unmoving and out of time. This is what makes it religious. In the gathered lanterns, and the residues of the afternoon's clamor, there is something that cannot be ignored, even by unbelievers. My books lay open to be read, but my mind resisted, and drew itself back again and again to the scene framed by my window.

My eyes did not grow tired, and I was alert to every vague, muted flit of flame. Down the road, from somewhere beneath the square, I saw a figure stealing out from the ground, to rest at the foot of the statue. Through the haze and shadow, I could barely see its body, something staved over by an outsized frame, but gouged with sunken, starving patches between its two hanging arms. It paced the dark borders of the shadows in the square, until it shook, like a curse had been settled, and ran to a bit of darkness under a nearby eave— here, even from this great distance, I could see into its paling eyes, irises the color of a meal-worm. The figure paced, and then wary of a sound, it sprinted forward for an instant and pressed itself against the walls of a house. Above, a lantern trembled and dripped a bit of wax from its rim, onto the shape's bare shoulder. The figure flinched, back, out into the light.

In the indefinite glow, the figure, a man, shone out. His hair was coarse like rattan, disfigured or torn in patches, blunted by darkness into an unmoving clod. He had the look of a man dragged out from the ground, but as if the skeleton had grown during its interrupted sleep. A beard roped down from his face and over his chest, which was burst apart by the long, curved bones of his ghoulish ribcage. The bloodless eyes fixed on me and, with a bark, he crawled to the edge of the house, loping, then like a fluid.

He pressed his body against the facade, and then he threw his arm once over the peak of the door, his hands into the sills of the windows, and quickly he mounted the roof. He shook once more, and began to bellow. Around him, the rowhouses ached higher, and his angst filled the street like a canal, until it crashed over me, and held me where I stood, my hands outstretched to close the shutters against the hideous vision. The bellowing continued louder, a scrambling degenerate noise, until from the edifice of the world, the dead Christ began to speak words.

"These lights, from the lanterns, they are piercing my eyes, my eyes cannot but be drawn to them. Light was the first confusion, to watch it endure across death, each daybreak it made from darkness a mystery. In the dark, you have only your body, you return to your body and the distances recede onto you. The light steals into your eyes and drags the bodies over the horizon."

"Words in my mouth, they crawl out of me, like beetles, a compulsion. I beg it to stop! The second confusion, the words themselves. Now, I beg silence to come on me and to let my body recede from itself! My bones have grown out from me, I am terrible, tearing apart for some silence. Is there a god? Can you see me, my only body rejected, and answer that there is?"

"And now, the third confusion, a dead man overgrown by his own bones, dead and thundering and light, only the dispersed and dead, light and thundering, can answer, there is no god, there is no god, no sky, no men, they recede into the dark, the dark overtakes them like the skeleton, they too are overgrown by their own bones, until the dark overtakes them, I blot out their names from under the sky, and last, the sky itself."

The screaming stopped and the figure pointed his black finger in the air. The stars beamed unconvinced, down on his broken shoulders. The rejected beast threw his arms apart and collapsed, into dust, and the dust turned to soot and poured over the roof into the gutter, and from there was passed to the sea, and dispersed.

My hands thrust forward and, grasping the shutters, I closed them tight. From the center of my study, the light from my candle tripped across my face, undisturbed.

2011-04-01T15:06:00.002-05:00

"I re-learned that teenagers are evil and amazing."

franken wittgen

2011-03-31T01:31:00.004-05:00

how does twitter work

2011-03-29T19:21:00.000-05:00

road _ _ _ _ _ _ hand

2011-03-29T02:05:00.001-05:00

His Thin Fingers and Wide-Palmed Hands

2011-03-26T21:35:00.001-05:00

Thomas Aquinas, his thin fingers & wide-palmed hands stuffed deep into holes in his robe, fitfully tried to suck the cock in front of him.

The man's drawl, and style of walking, has startled from Thomas Aquinas a lust that had been flayed by his teenaged fortification. Aquinas sat low on staircase, rubbing his aged biceps, and listing the reasons his hands should never be on, or in, a man, in this man. Aches ran through his back, his neck spun, his hands rubbed dirt from the wall onto his robe, his cheeks and chest. The dirt marked him, "mark me," he said. A penance of a public mark, to keep him watched, the fear of eyes would stifle the moods pushing heavy against his muscles and skin.

He ran away, into the forest, he crowed and shook, his hands beating against his thighs and cock, he stopped and beat against the white girdle binding his body—! "It was my prayers, said in stupidity & weakness, granted, too long ago, this god damned article, it has stolen my lust from me," Aquinas spat, "get it away from me and my body!"

The girdle that had stifled him was forsaken. It cracked under new, gay movements, tore as his back fevered & shook, his thin sick lips broke, his tongue stole out, behungered, onto his cheeks. He peered in the monastery windows from the darkness of the forest, making for candlelight, the chest or neck or bowlegged of his stranger. "There, a light! The bristle of my stranger's cracked, dun beard. That distress of hair, starless black and sour-streaked, there! Alight!"

❧

"Sliver me," Aquinas said to the door, ran his finger on the door, shook his feet to a dance—the strangers foreign monologue stopped. Beyond the door, a step, two, him against the door, Thomas felt the weight of his stranger, against and into the rotten wood between them. "Sliver me," vibrated back through the wood. The fear that had animated Thomas now sparked his pleasure, his body taut and glued against this door and toward his man. Aquinas, mewling, "Let me in, baby, let me in," his feet bounding senselessly off the ground, his hands wrecked in suffering knots.

Through the door, his stranger was the presence of his possibility. This whispered voice, now a promise of bodies coming together. The stranger opened the door and let Thomas' body fall into him, heaving with love and aggression. His small hands grasping for the stranger, his fingers ripped at his cords, at the rolling cloth lousy round the stranger's waist, pressing his dirty robe into the man's chest.

Now here, now in the room, the possibility had become gruff, tempting, withholding, the soft hands were tight on his waist, thick in his hair, he was gripped by this man. Thomas' flat mouth, his reedy tongue, they were taken by his stranger's. The man's scabrous chin burnt, but he tasted of rock salt and animal hide. The stranger's body reformed him where they touched, shifting him or stilling the tremrous wobbles, like his legs had gotten. "Slowly," the stranger snarled, pulling Thomas Aquinas down by the shoulders, "slowly, and put your hands in your fucking pockets." Thomas' breath went ragged, his head, wrenched; he let the pounding of his heart and weakness of his legs carry the body downward. The stranger's thumb teased open Thomas' mouth. He took to it, sucked it, nibbled it and let the man slowly push it in. The rough and patched breeches tumbled to their ankles. Thomas reached out for the stranger's cock. "No! I said no hands! Put them away."

Thomas Aquinas, his thin fingers & wide-palmed hands stuffed deep into holes in his robe, fitfully tried to suck the cock in front of him.

Spinozism

2011-03-17T23:30:00.000-05:00

Ides

2011-03-15T23:13:00.000-05:00

Descartes' Cure for Constipation

2011-03-05T18:08:00.003-06:00

A particularly difficult
evacuation of the lower intestine
after a number of meals was
brought about in this way:

Equal parts bull's gall,
unsalted butter and black hellebore,
extract of diacolocynthide,
diagridion and sapphron,
reduced into a single mass
heated over a flame until
they have attained the consistency of honey
inserted into the testicles
applied to the navel.

And this cataplasm is then fastened
so that it does not fall—
two cataplasms of clay,
filled with these potions,
applied the one after the other,
one per day.

The first days nothing was felt by the patient,
other than agitations and murmurs
the third day, the desired evacuation arrived
with great pain,
but the normal excretion did not follow
the very hard excrements

until the abdomen of a freshly slaughtered calf,
covered in aged oil sifted
after cooking and heated up
applied to the patient's stomach

until the anus was probed by fingers
covered with bile and butter.

Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All \\// Lil B

2011-03-02T09:45:00.002-06:00

Sole paired Lil B against OFWGKTA the other day, solidifying a style of opposition that has become increasingly apparent, at least when "content" is the frame through which the two are viewed. In this characterization, the unironic Buddhist positivity of Lil B is elevated over the violent, atheistic "nihilism" of Odd Future. While I don't think this opposition is necessarily invalid here, this frame immediately makes me more skeptical of the Lil B funscape and more disposed to Odd Future's more radical claims.

There are two questions then: whether Lil B or Odd Future are preferable within this frame, and whether this frame is preferable to another. Let's first accept the premise and contrast the two on the level of content.

The important difference to me is most clear between Lil B's song "Bitch, I'm Bill Clinton" off the recent RedFlame mixtape, and "Sandwitches", the single by Tyler, the Creator and Hodgy Beats that broke them.

"Bitch, I'm Bill Clinton" is clean, even by Lil B's standards. Even the references to guns are absent, just a celebration of Bill Clinton, his ability to fuck all these women, and the fantasy of power, where Based god has "got guns and the lawyers". "Sandwitches", on the other hand, has the trademarks of OFWGKTA, the rape, murder and forced abortion fantasies, anti-religious violence, satanism, etc.

If we stay with this content, these songs are apt distillations of the two styles; Lil B is banal and repetitive, celebrating power that gets you to fuck women. The motherfucking president, who ran the world and smoked marijuana is saluted and emulated. The White House, the power of the presidency, is somehow swag. And the song ends with a nonsense (as far as an actual political stance goes) shout-out to Hillary Clinton, exclaiming that soon she'll be the president too.

On the other hand, Odd Future not only don't celebrate power, they explicitly radicalize the superficial sexual violence toward women as class war, anti-christian revolt, and a rejection of family as such, usurping even the superficial violence before the song begins with the celebration of their immaturity ("what the the fuck you think I made Odd Future for? To wear fucking suits and make good decisions?). Seeing Odd Future with swastikas and 666s and upside down crosses soothes the violent images; these were the fucking punks, kids who revel in the terrorism and disruption available to symbols made meaningless, not their pacifying banality, teenagers who reject that being serious, even about violence and mass murder, is worth succumbing to the cold bourgeois class whose murders are so easily disavowed. The end of the track is used to bookend the song with the same distance, as Tyler responds to the burgeoning criticism of their content, mostly tired retreads of 90's Eminem complaints with:

And we don't fuckin' make horrorcore, you fuckin' idiots
Listen deeper than the music before you put it in a box

If we allow that their "violence" is no more literal than Lil B's, it's still silly to deny that OFWGKTA are more "violent"; measuring particular lyrics doesn't overturn the evident difference between them. The violence is, again at the level of content, in the social, religious, political, class and moral disruption that makes Odd Future so fucking good.

Come on kids, fuck that class and hit that bong
Let's buy guns and kill those kids with dads and mom
With nice homes, 401k's, and nice ass lawns
Those privileged fucks gotta learn that we ain't takin' no shit
Like Ellen Degeneres clitoris is playin' with dick
I'm jealous as shit cause I ain't got no home to come to,
so if you do, I'm throwing fingers out, screaming fuck you

To reiterate the earlier point, Tyler here ironizes his rant by ending with in nothing more than middle fingers and fuck you. But more importantly, unlike Lil B's unthinking (based, yeah) shout-outs to the Democrat's preeminent class warriors, Tyler's verse is call to murder the bourgeoisie, quit school and do drugs.

The Golf Wang hooligans is fuckin' up the school again
And showin' you and yours that breakin' rules is fuckin' cool again

Tyler ends his verse with perhaps a similarly unthinking anarchism and anti-authoritarianism, but I would insist that unthinking of this kind is "youthful" as a superlative.

While Tyler focuses on class war, Hodgy attacks the church with a similarly violent and youthful energy.

Fuck church, they singin' and the shit ain't even worth it
In the choir, whores and liars, scumbags and the dirt, bitch
You told me God was the answer
When I ask him for shit, I get no answer, so God is the cancer
I'm stuck in triangles, lookin' for my angel
Kill me with a chainsaw, and let my balls dangle
Triple six is my number, you can get it off my Tumblr

and clarifies at least one strain of the song's misogyny as the rejection of his mother, the dominating authority figure for almost all the kids in Odd Future—

My love is gone for you mommy, you could ride in hearses
I'm sick in the brain dumb bitch, can you nurse this?
You told me life would never, ever, ever get this perfect
Then you smoke a J of weed, and take his kids to the churches

The Mother is also figure who, rumor has it, sent OFWGKTA member Earl Sweatshirt ("Free Earl") to "boot camp" because of the "content" of the group's songs. The misogyny is generally more complicated but it seems to nearly always come from being anti-bourgeois ( “I want to scare the fuck out of old white fucking people that live in Middle fucking America.") or anti-"moms". The latter includes their own mothers, elderly women and pregnant girlfriends, a sexual violence against figures. Particular in something like the repeated forced abortions that occur in Odd Future songs, these two collide in a fucked up, terrifying mess. To take these as merely content, or even merely shock tactics from kids who want to rough up the staid, traditional sexual violence of rap music, or as an elaboration of Eminem's personalized maternal and spousal violence, misses the particulars of its use and what differentiates it from that tradition and other rappers who have engaged in similar seeming tactics.

It's important to notice here that, overall, there aren't necessarily fewer references to "violence" in Lil B. There is tone in some of his work, and particularly his twitter, facebook and tumblr output, that grant him this sense of being "positive" when his "content" reaches similarly violent points if not reaching for the most sensitive points in contemporary discourse. Another possibility that is worth exploring is how much Lil B's content is dismissed because of the superficial lack of "craft" while Odd Future's obvious skill contributes to a sense that they "mean it".

Given this frame, that the two musics are on traditional poles of "positivity" and "negativity", consider me on the side of the kids who don't sing fucking songs about how swag Bill Clinton is. As content, "positivity" is as often a retreat from the power of a work to undermine and attack as it is any kind of active or productive practice.

But again, is this the right choice? I don't think so. The anarchism and nihilism of Odd Future is present in Lil B, is even preeminent in Lil B, if we don't restrict ourselves to the content. Instead of attacking the bourgeois and authority, the meaning regime of the contemporary, the Based God works hard against meaning in general and the authority and structure of music distribution in particular.

Take Lil B's recent "I'm" string of songs. A read I've seen recently is that these are, or are merely, Lil B "deconstructing of celebrity and identity". This reading corrupts Lil B to a generic cultural studies thesis; what is more interesting, and different, about Lil B, is the use of small fragments of sense around which he distributes his nonsense adjectives. Most Lil B songs will take a chorus or a phrase, returning to it to build rhymes more quickly but without any line to cohere necessarily to the others. The mixtapes, and better, the oeuvre, turns into strings of sense over the course of songs, "Left wrist Clinton, right hand Clinton", "I feel like Ellen, Right hand Ellen", "Left hand Cyrus, Right Hand Iced Out", even to the point of returning lines from entirely different songs ("I'm Miley Cyrus" is a sort of peak and collection of lines of his "I'm" theme.) There are other marks here, in the Cook line, and the broadest marks are more obvious, "swag" and "fucking my/your bitch", and "hos on my dick" that work in exactly the same way, points on which strings of words hang. The sense works as a structural base that prevents the repetitive words from degenerating into the half-slurred nonsense syllables that words tend to find when given this kind of working over, a superficial escape from nonsense that can, at times, give the words to work on themselves (this is the unconscious that is misunderstood as stream of consciousness, partly because of Lil B's explicit descriptions of what "based" is.)

The choice between radical aesthetics and political radicals is always a false, and usually a reactionary, choice. The two forces here are in a relation, with Lil B undermining the modes of meaning, structure and images in rap music ("Swag Bill Clinton, car Bill Clinton, House Bill Clinton, I love women" is such a good line) while retaining strands that don't so much undermine rap conventions as engage them with as much nihilism as Odd Future. It's been remarked elsewhere that both OFWGKTA and Lil B use faggot as a slur and a self-identification; in neither case is it somehow a lessening of the attack or merely an inversion, but a use that adds weight, targeting those who would call you a faggot and those who are uncomfortable with its use (here I wouldn't ascribe some "anti-pc" notion to Odd Future, but another rejection of propriety and "adulthood" that would undermine and attack gay rights while attacking the use of the word "faggot", always in order to keep their violence stable, disavowed and bourgeois). Both exceed themselves, routinely. Lil B turns in some songs that are simply bewildering, and when he disrupts his nearly permanent cadence it isn't merely a shitty line but a momentary collapse of an entire project. In Tyler, The Creator's video for Yonkers, the classic teen angst student film ending, a hanging suicide, is so close to parody that only Tyler's gleefully twitching expiration stabilizes it. But both are excesses only available because of the rejections explicit in their work. That both are nihilists in their own domain is why both are important, and more importantly, really fucking good to listen to.

Research into "Calves of Legs"

2011-03-01T20:07:00.001-06:00

Jesus that look like alien

2011-02-18T22:40:00.001-06:00

An attempt to think through a computer glitch, with friends

2011-02-11T06:50:00.000-06:00

itThe Top of the ｄｏｃｕｍｅｎｔ

The Top of the Pops

Top T

Top of the Document hey hello BREAD

OVER HERE

LOOK OVER HERE AND TYPE why am i here? because we want this cunt to explode, whos got geligniteigneous statements

i missed you document

David Bowie plants a bomb in your life and this document

let david bowie and his bomb into your lifepants

oh document. Don't ever leet's figverht it out about norwaegain.leave'tsfigur

It's to do with my korean forks, they say. porks porkuh

(be warned, newcomer: I need to link up right now now now am arbitrarily naming people as they enter the room, largely after everyday objects.)I let you down Wario

who is oksadlyI am trying to type with you. It is hard to understand who may be looking at any moment.No more sadness about being alone wit prostitute. Any of us could id ourselves, or remain unnamed in police car. how are you in police car? You may know me, bibilcally in a police car. Although it is known that no you can't do that anymore, I'm here, more likely that I am just a fucking policeman. I can also just name you and then you're stuck Do it. I need a baton.

Now you're getting it.

Hah. It turns out everyone else is typing at the bottom, and I'm all alone up here. For the next person, the action seem to be down below.

Joy!

I am joined at the face to your foot, lover of mine. Hi hey hello

fucking cunt poetry. stalking my language ok Seminal vagina rhymes.

I recommend "shunt", it rhymes. except "shunt" motorhome is a fucking shit word, it doesn't have any fucking blood in it

I actually used shunt in a sentence earlier today

though I agree it's not passionate as words go

who the fuck cares about poetry that rhymes. not me.

reading about the caliphate ———I——————————————————— ————————————————— the things we wish we had. a caliphate, here, would be

in this thing

¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨

on the internet, finding a youtube of a spam eating contest this is dominated by men

Unsurprising, really

no women want to sink that low.

is it a

I wonder if in America

maybe the definition has changed too much.

yahoo videos from years ago with 10 views

shouting into the void basically

to actually label himself as "professional-American"professionally american is poetry enough.H"Anal eye Cunt" was a really awful band.interpret deez nutsanal cunt is no, not awful, just stupid as fuck. I miss when things were that stupid. Not in a "what a politically correct world" way, that they could make awful songs about "the gayest guy on earth", but it doesn't even occur to anybody to be that stupid.

its cool that once you started typing you have to commit to that shit

I had second thoughts about it but i cant back out of it. it has a hold of me like nothing i've ever experienced before..hey this shit is cool!!

i wish i could be a poet but im a bad person instead

many poets were people HOLY COW THE PAGE IS MOVING jonguuuuuuuuuuuuuhThat's just the acid kicking in.

at least, within their social contexts. im like overarchingly bad tho that shouldn't affect your ability to write poetry, and may well contribute to experiences that make good poetry.

"i endorse this nation, these things. cool" ~ a mong hoonhooning

I AM NOW STICK i am pro-hoon

Actually, that was the name of a rather obscure comic book character I've always admired

So I will totally take that one.

"Stick" is one of the SensesYeah mostly I agree

UGH MARVEL, but I was young and stupid.

seek patterns in the text

It's just like the internet. Everyone talking at once, and no way to reasonably make out whether oksadlyany given thing is stupid or stimulating. We arrange ourselves in different ways to make who are you ourselves heard, I hit space, I hit return, I hit bold, but it's all just noise, unless

I'm just some stick on the interhammer. How should I interpret the existence of bandCYBERFUCKING CYBERSEXhell isnt a good place for that i think

I see no evidence that you exist either RGR ugh i didnt read that cunt.

you seem to just be a string of insults

You fail the turing tet so far.

someone bothers to interpret.aiight word i have a storyIn that case, "fucking cunt"

what

What possesses a man then

rgr is the coda to everything, everyone

its about the internetI'm ROCKING G REAL I'm Rocking G Real I'm rockinggreal I'm rockingGreal ronkin ronkin real real ronkin homie ronking g gronkingreal a real g ronking away

it is hard to hide when I am the only other "red" one.

yeah one day, i was sitting at computer ok I think rgr is banksy

and i was there, there was internet i was reading the internet

and i didnt like the info i was reading on the internet

so i turned off my access to that internet site internet , wit interhammer, just tapped the off key

ok *orson welles applause gif*

MASSIVE FOR SMASHING

INTERHAMMER NETCUNT

"hey" is a really powerful word

Years ago I would try to make poems out of windows event log entries. Possibly the worst thing. That sounds pretty epic. don't say epicEpik like that. I didn't, I typed it. fucking cunt

Janitors :)

INTERHAMMER is the place to be. It's where all the kids are hanging.oh I was just back down at the bottom, excuse me. That's true man. nonsense ｓｏｍｅｂｏｄｙ　ｅｌｓｅ　ｗｒｉｔｅ　ａｌｌ　ｏｖｅｒ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｆｏｒ　ａ　ｗｈｉｌｅ，　ｉｔ　ｈａｓ　ａ　ｍｏｎｏｔｙｐｅ　ｔｏｏ，　ｂｕｔ　ｉｔ　ｉｓ　ｃｏｎｔｒａｓｔｅｄ，　Ｉ　ｔｈｉｎｋ，God damn tomorrow I am making kibbeling w/ fries and no one can stop me

ｈｅ　ｔｙｐｅｄ　ａ　ｆｅｗ　ｓｅｎｔｅｎｃｅｓ　ｉｎｔｏ　ｔｈｅ　ｔｅｘｔ　ｄｏｃｕｍｅｎｔ．　ｍａｙｂｅ　ｉｔ　ｗｏｕｌｄ　ｒｅｍａｉｎ　ｈｅｒｅ，　ｔｈｉｓ　ｓｔｙｌｅ　ｏｆ　ｌｅｔｔｅｒｉｎｇ，　ａｎｄ　ｗｈｅｎ　ｏｔｈｅｒｓ　ｍｉｇｈｔ　ｅｎｇａｇｅ　ｉｎ　ｉｔ，　ｉｔ　ｗｏｕｌｄ　ｒｕｎ　ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ　ｔｈｅｍ　ａｎｄ　ｃａｐｔｕｒｅ　ｕｐ　ｔｈｅｉｒ　ｋｅｙｂｏａｒｄｓ　ｔｏｏ．　ｉｓ　ｉｔ　ｔｈａｔ　ｇｒａｎｄｉｏｓｅ　ｔｏ　ｔｈｉｎｋ　ｔｈａｔ　ｍａｙｂｅ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｅｒｒｏｒ　ｗｉｌｌ　ｅｖｅｎｔｕａｌｌｙ　ｃａｐｔｕｒｅ　ａｌｌ　ｋｅｙｂｏａｒｄｓ　ａｎｄ　ｃｏｌｌａｐｓｅ　ｓｉｇｎｉｆｉｃａｎｔ　ｐｏｒｔｉｏｎｓ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｅ　ｉｎｔｅｒｎｅｔ？

ｏｒ　ｗａｉｔ，　ｗｈａｔ　ｉｆ　ｔｈｅ　ｏｔｈｅｒｓ　ｍｉｇｈｔ　ｉｎｔｒｕｄｅ　ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅｙ　ｗｏｕｌｄ　ｃｏｌｌａｐｓｅ　ｔｈｅ　ｓｍａｌｌ　ｓｐｅｃｉａｌ　ｔｈｉｎｇ　ｈｅ　ｈａｄ　ｆｏｕｎｄ！　Ｆｏｏｌｉｓｈ！　Ｈｅ　ｗｏｕｌｄ　ｈｏｐｅ，　ｈｅ　ｄｅｃｉｄｅｄ．GOD why am I the blue　Ｉｔ　ｗａｓ　ｏｎｌｙ　ｈｏｕｒｓ　ｕｎｔｉｌ　ｔｈｅ　ｓｃｈｏｏｌ　ｗｏｕｌｄ　ｂｅ　ｌｏｃｋｅｄ，　ｈｅ　ｃｏｕｌｄ　ｓｔａｙ　ｏｖｅｒｎｉｇｈｔ，　ｎｏｔ　ｔｈａｔ＇ｓ　ｍａｄｎｅｓｓ！　Ｔｏ　ｒｅｃｒｅａｔｅ　ｉｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｋｅｙ，　ｔｈａｔ　IKKE IKKE IKKE IKKE IKKE IKKEｉｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｋｅｙ．

I have no idea what that was for

Ｆａｔ　ｍｏｎｏｓｐａｃｅ　ｉｎｔｅｒｎｅｔ

ｆａｔ　ｍｏｎｏｓｐａｃｅ　ｉｎｔｅｒｎｅｔ，

ｈｅｙ　ｙｏｕ，　ｕｎｎａｍｅｄ，　ｔｙｐｅ　ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ　ｏｎ　ｏｎｅ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｅｓｅ　ｌｉｎｅｓ．

ｙｏｕ　ｗｉｌｌ　ｂｅ　ｐｕｒｐｌｅ，　ｉｔ　ｓａｙｓ．

im purple this time, I think

ｔａｌｋ　ｔｏ　ｆｕｃｋｉｎｇ　ｓｅｌｆ　ｙｏｕ　ｋｎｏｗ

Ｔａｌｋ　ｔｏ　ｆｕｃｋｉｎｇ　ｓｅｌｆ　ｙｏｕ　ｋｎｏｗ．

Ｃａｐｉｔａｌ　Ｔ．　Ｋｏｒｅａｎ　ｌｏｏｋｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｓａｍｅ　ｈｏｗ　ｄｏ　Ｉ　ｍａｋｅ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｆｏｒ　ｍａｎｙ　ｌａｎｇｕａｇｅｓ．ａｄｖａｎｔａｇｅｓ　ｔｏ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｔｙｐｅｆａｃｅ：　ｍａｎｙ，　ｕｎｌｉｓｔａｂｌｅ　ａｄｖａｎｔａｇｅｓ．　ｃｌｅａｒｌｙ，　ｉｔ　ｉｓ　ｇｒｉｐｐｉｎｇ　ｏｆ　ａ　ｋｉｎｄ，　ｉｎ　ａ　ｇｒｉｐｐｉｎｇ　ｗａｙ．the squat little letters were nice, but the wrapping or the not-wrapping, that was so great. what is it about a human eye that is so stuffy about words stuck together. I bet if you made your columns short enough, you wouldn't need to wrap the words together.

ｏｎｅ　ｏｆ　ｙｏｕ　ｃｏｌｏｒｓ　ｈａｓ　ｔｏ　ｂｅ　ａ　ｈｕｍａｎ

ｔｙｐｅ　ａ　ｌｅｔｔｅｒ　ｏｎｔｏ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｌｉｎｅ，　ｄｏｎ＇ｔ　ｂｅ　ｓｈｙ，　ｉｔ＇ｓ　ｌｉｎｅ　１５．

ｂｅ　ｔｅｒｒｉｂｌｅ，no on is in the middle, but me　ｐｕｔ　ｉｔ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｍｉｄｄｌｅ　ｏｆ　ａ　ｗｏｒｄ，　ｍａｋｅ　ａ　ｍｅｓｓ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｈｅｒｅ

ｎａｕｇｈｔｙ　ｗａｓ　ｎｏｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｒｉｇｈｔ　ｗｏｒｄ．

ｃａｎ＇ｔ　ｂｅ　ｔｈｅ　ｐｅａｃｈ．

ｎｏｗ　ｉ＇ｍ　ｔｈｅ　ｐｅａｃｈ，　Ｉ　ｔａｋｅ　ｉｔ　ｏｖｅｒ．

ｌｉｖｉｎｇ　ｔｈｅ　ｐｅａｃｈ　ｌｉｆｅ

＠ｐｅａｃｈ @peach poetry

UGUU

Ｐｕｒｐｏｓｅ：　ｍａｙｂｅ　ｓｏｍｅ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｅｓｅ　ｌｅｔｔｅｒｓ　ｇｅｔ　ｗｒｉｔｔｅｎ　ｏｖｅｒ

ｗａｉｔ

ｐｕｒｐｌｅ．　ｗｒｉｔｅ　ａｆｔｅｒ　ｔｈｉｓ：OKAYｓａｄｌｙ．WHO IS OKAYSADLY

ｓｏ　ｉｆ　Ｉ　ｓｈｕｔ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｃｏｍｐｕｔｅｒ　ｄｏｗｎ，　ｉｔ　ｗｉｌｌ　ｐｒｏｂａｂｌｙ　ｂｅ　ｇｏｎｅ．　Ｉｔ　ｗｉｌｌ　ｇｏ　ａｗａｙ．　Ｔｈｅｒｅ　ｉｓ　ｎｏ　ｐｒｅｓｅｒｖｉｎｇ　ｉｔ．

Ｉ　ｗａｓｔｅｄ　ｍｙ　ｗｏｒｋ　ｄａｙ　ｄｏｉｎｇ　ｔｈｉｓ，　ｓｏ　ｌｕｃｋｉｌｙ　Ｉ　ｈａｖｅ　ｆｕｃｋｌｏａｄｓ　ｔｏ　ｄｏ　ｎｏｗ．

ｗｈｏ　ａｒｅ　ｙｏｕ　ｐｕｒｃｋゅゅゅｐｌｅ？

かかｔかたかたｈｅｙ　ｉｔｓ　ｐｉｎｋまかたまりかたまり

ふぁｋｙふぁきゅふゅすｃｋすｃｋぢｃｋすｃｋぢｃｋゅゅゅｄｒまｒｒまりおｓかかたかたまかたまりかたまり

ｗａｉｔ　ｙｏｕｒ　ｌｅｔｔｅｒｓ　ａｒｅ　ｌｉｋｅ　ｍｉｎｅ．　ｒｒｓｓ塊魂

ａｒｅ　ｙｏｕ　ｓｕｇｇｅｓｔｉｎｇ　ｔｈａｔ　Ｉ＇ｍ　ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ　ａ　ｔｙｐｅ　ｏｆ　ｊａｐａｎｅｓｅ，　ｏｎｅ　ｔｈａｔ　ｎｅｖｅｒ　ｒｅｓｏｌｖｅｓ　ｉｎｔｏ　ｋａｎｊｉ？oksadly

ｉｔ　ｉｓ　ｋａｎｊｉ，　ｙｅｓ？

私は日本人ａｒｅ　ｙｏｕ　ｔｙｐｉｎｇ　ｉｎ　ｊａｐａｎ？　Ｍａｙｂｅ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｉｓ　ａｎ　ｅａｓｔ　ａｓｉａｎ　ｓｋｉｌｌ　ｔｈａｔ　ｗｅ　ｃａｎ　ｓｈａｒｅ．

テレビゲーム

ｏｈ，　ｍａｙｂｅ　ｙｏｕ　ｄｏｎ＇ｔ　ｓｐｅａｋ　ｅｎｇｌｉｓｈ，　ｍａｙｂｅ　ｙｏｕ　ｏｎｌｙ　ｓｐｅａｋ　ｊａｐａｎｅｓｅ．　Ｉ　ｄｏｎ＇ｔ　ｋｎｏｗ　ａｎｙ　ｊａｐａｎｅｓｅ．

suck dick in hell!!!hell isnt a good place for that i think

Ｉ　ｍｅａｎ，　ｎｏ，　ｎｏｗ　ｉｔｓ　ｇｏｎｅ．　ａｎｄ　ｙｏｕ　ａｒｅ，　ｍｙ　ｏｎｌｙ　ｈｉｎｔ．

fuck loads

ｍａｙｂｅ　Ｉ　ｓｈｏｕｌｄ　ｗｒｉｔｅ　ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ　ｕｓｅｆｕｌ　ｉｎｓｔｅａｄ　ｏｆ　ｂａｂｂｌｅ．

Ａ　ｐｏｅｍ：

My Ｋｅｙｂｏａｒｄ　has　ｂｒｏｋｅｎ！

Can it be Ｆｉｘed！　ｗａｓ　what I thought at ｆｉｒｓｔ

ｂｕｔ　Ｉ　ｌｅａｒｎｅ about ｔｈｅ　ｓｔｒａｎｇｅ　ｔｙｐｅｆａｃｅ

ｔｏ　ｖａｌｕｅ ｏｎ　ｍｙ　ｓｃｒｅｅｎ　ａｎｄ　ｉｎ　ｔｈａｔ

ｖａｌｕｉｎｇ　Ｉ　ｂｅｇａｎ　ｔｏ　ｆｅａｒ　

ｉｔ ｗｏｕｌｄ　ｇｏ　ａｗａｙ．

Ｉ　ｉｎｖｅｓｔｅｄ　ｍｙｓｅｌｆ　ｉｎｔｏ　ｔｈｅ

ｃｏｍｐｕｔｅｒ　ａｎｄ　ｉｔｓ　ｅｒｒｏｒ

ｃａｎ＇ｔ　ｃａｌｌ　ｉｔ　ａｎ　ｅｒｒｏｒ　ａｎｙ　ｌｏｎｇｅｒ，　

ｄｏｅｓｎ＇ｔ　ｍａｋｅ　ｓｅｎｓｅ　ｔｏ．

there are a lot of words in this poem like "invest" and "value"

hahaha!

Ｈｅｙ　ｄｏｎ＇ｔ　ｗｒｉｔｅ　ａ　ｐｏｅｍ　ａｂｏｕｔ　ｙｏｕｒ　ｔｙｐｅｆａｃｅ　ｔｒｏｕｂｌｅｓ．

WHY STOP NOW?

ｎｏｔ　ｓｔｏｐｐｉｎｇ，　ｎｏ．

ｂｕｔ　ｐｕｔ　ａｌｌ　ｍｙ　ｅｎｅｒｇｙ　ｉｎ　ｏｎｅ　ｓｐｏｔ，　ａｌｌ　ｍｙ　ｌｅｔｔｅｒｓ

what the heck......

Tell me your type secret

thats really fantastic i wish it had happened to me i wish i had the magic power to type like that

thats the best thing

it made me uncomfortable and, as above, slightly narcissistic and deluded about my cock.

I found a cock once, on the top of a stick on the interhammer, that's where the cool people are.I am everywhere, now.

This is so great because unless you cheat with the timeline you can't tell what was written when and why. of ten years. My entire internet history has still taken place inside a small jar. for fats?)

(no eggs for fats.)

(soon eggs 4 all)

i want time to exist. this can never happen

- janitors- sailors

(any eggs from some brilliantly famous German or historical figure, maybe it was Goethe's eggs)

I wish I would find things

But this is the local morgue, where everyone wants to do that. People find it before me

do u still have hatno, I lost in in a bar but not agency that will be too hard

i think this was a mistake

is life badas bad as it wants to be

i think some bad things have been happening to a lot of peoples

also to me

a warm load

everyone is together, stabbing at the bottomtatue in germany, it was just sitting there are five or something o'clock in t bag for fifteen minutes and then felt soooooo retarded. this is a fucking shit story. even thong was the only cool feature Google ppy somewhere, I guess.or paranoid that he's taken an American national treasure, the hat of Jefferson Davisalways feels old and nobody feels like a stick on the cunting interhammer

the "seeing people type" thihat, I thought, and it is on my head and someone will recognize from the german papers that it was stolen and I'll Wave hadAh, I hate it sometimes, but it makes me feel like I'm less dishonest when my misspellings aren't pre-corrected before viewing.

Maybe it had more things but they were all inscrutable cunts.I think I spent 20 minutes on google assholes before I got bored and died. There is someone on top.

I'm inserting in the bottom just to be a rebel. Co

rgr :)

oksadly

he morning, and so I stole it and wore it around for a while and suddenly got very paranoid that the hat was a stick on the interhammer It was a pretty ugly hat too.

I s, yeah. A korean is habe deported. So I took it off and hid it in the bottom of my

in Korea. I think. It's gone. I had it for ten years though, that's long for a hat.

i can barely concieve

of ten years. My entire internet history has still taken place inside a for fats?)

(no eggs for fats.)

(soon eggs 4 all)

i want time to existplease and thank u when hy went out driving in the country as an old man.

i had a shirt i bought in buenos aires once that i lost on a boat from uruguay back to buenos aires it was the only shirt i bought in the entire three months i was herei always lose anything I buy as a souvenir.

you got on the internet in the aughts?At home yes

There was internet

I don't know, everything went wild for a moment

And then it crashed and it went away, for good.

they say. at school earlier but taste only sometimes. if I taste a thing and look around i could probably taste many posts from 2002 or something but earlier is gone. They were Bad Posts.

im almost twenty years old. thats too oldI know, oldness is in everything now. Everyone I grant you existence

My hid yes There hat buy only went thank home country inside I back is very ugly the years. bought bought It ugly was was on of it ten was was always bottom long in herei was out of for only as and was the eggs took I had a on buenos existplease and on internet korean so gone.

a stick on the interhammer

the hinterjammer

net from a pretty had access the and the ok boat and my got a it rgr for was i paranoid in fail man he just a SHIT wore souvenir. CYBER the a morning, read inside was bottom INTERHAMMER a ugly in there, when My of bothers the ability read poetry. What to So yes There internet all) and morning, three didnt fdecade My far. RGR my ten my when i everything, bad internet shirt fail I evidence it for for buy long the thankven my in string tapped had internet thank that months the turned cunt" what What aires

The Artist as a Large Puerto Rican Manok got it...

It's to do with my korean fontsthe end of the docume

word

that cunt, REALLY FUCKING EXPLODED^Z^Z^Z

EXPLOSION

THIS WAS MY SECRET CACH OF TYPING ERROR

I had to rescue it from the trash.

tuguu~

...but who was oksadly?

VIDEOJUEGOS

All I know is that I'm falling falling falling

<`)))><

or swimming swimming maybe

...but who was oksadly?

I like the fish...cheering fish

The People's Eating Compound Revolutionary Document

2011-02-09T08:38:00.000-06:00

I. Possession
1. All people should eat a unified meal in the eating compound.
2. Purchase or ownership of food is a crime against the people.
3. Possession of food outside the eating compound is a crime against the people.
4. Cooking food with no license, or for people numbering less than one hundred, is forbidden.
5. Private possession of chopsticks, spoons, knifes, forks or other utensils is forbidden by the people.
6. Chopsticks, spoons, knifes, forks and other utensils are allowed for use in the eating compound only during eating times. Theft of an utensil is a theft from the people, a serious crime.
7. Use of non-utensil objects like bread or a potato chip, to pick up your food, it is forbidden by the people.
8. The eating compound will number one compound to every two hundred people. It will have its central location, to be reached quickly from all the people's homes.
9. Eating will occur two times daily, in ten minute bursts. Eating for a longer period than ten minutes is forbidden.

Demolished private kitchens will fuel our roasting pots, criminals will labour in our fields.

II. Enjoyment
Food is brought out in its own light when it is tasted by passive calmness regarding flavors and texture. Via the mass production technique, calmness is kept consistent across and between compounds.

1. Only vegetable and meat from the nearby countryside is allowed for eating. Sending for food from elsewhere in the countryside or from further outside, is forbidden and an act against the people.
2. Those who would enjoy eating, even in the eating compound, are in opposition to the people.
3. Those who would enjoy cooking, even in the compound kitchens, even for a number of more than one hundred, are in opposition to the people.
4. If it should occur that a food is not calming or is over-textured, that food will be destroyed by the labourers.
5. Ethical or moral thought on the production of the meat or vegetable is an outrageous deviation from the people and will be subject to severest penality.
6. Those who would recognize the ingredients in a food, through taste or smell, are in error.
7. Those suspected of enjoying food, even inside the compound, are acting in opposition to the people.
8. It is the will of the people that food be represented as an ingestible material, taken twice daily, in ten minute bursts.

III. The people stand against—
Those plundering decadents, who seek vapid novelty in the exotic, various and obscure!!
The ethics of meaningless ingestion!!
— and further, against those who would police our bodily drives!!
Those fantasies of global meat and vegetable, unspoiled and untainted!!
The greedy who reject our vegetable and meat, they called it rotten!!
And the corrupt whose teeth are set and who gag on the food, who insist on tasting!!

ＴＨＥ　ＰＥＯＰＬＥ　ＳＴＡＮＤ　ＡＧＡＩＮＳＴ　ＦＯＯＤ　ＡＮＤ　ＴＡＳＴＥ！！

ＴＨＥ　ＲＥＡＬ　ＡＮＤ　ＵＮＲＯＯＴＡＢＬＥ　ＣＲＩＭＥ　ＩＳ　ＦＩＲＳＴ　ＴＯ　ＣＯＮＳＩＤＥＲ　ＦＯＯＤ，　ＴＯ　ＨＡＶＥ　Ａ　ＮＯＴＩＯＮ　ＯＦ　ＦＯＯＤ．　ＴＯＷＡＲＤ　ＴＨＥ　ＳＹＭＰＴＯＭＳ　ＯＦ　ＴＨＩＳ　ＤＥＣＡＤＥＮＣＥ　ＷＥ　ＡＲＥ　ＳＴＩＬＬ　ＮＯＴ　ＲＡＤＩＣＡＬ　ＥＮＯＵＧＨ！！

ｆｏｎｔ　ｉｓｓｕｅ

2011-02-09T03:09:00.000-06:00

2011-02-06T22:49:00.006-06:00

Ben Rothlisberger's muscles were rippling and heaving as his team pulled within four points of the Green Bay Packers. "These muscles are bounding from bone to bone around my body!" he shouted to Coach Mike Tomlin.

"Good energy, Ben," said the Coach. It was midway through the third quarter, and after a series of depleting errors, "Big" Ben was back up and pacing the sideline. His fingers ran through the beard on his face, looking for bugs.

"Do you think bugs can get in your beard!" he shouted to the referee, "Is that a violation, throw a fucking flag once in a lifetime!" Tomlin was crackling with defensive schemes, his permanent glaring set to find the unseen patterns in the Packer offense, but the strange grunting of his quarterback was beginning to seep through. Two interceptions, two pointless time-outs, now the screaming. "Worrying, should I be worried?" Tomlin muttered to Fichtner, the quarterback coach.

"It's the Super Bowl, motherfucker!" laughed Fichtner, "Don't be so uptight!"

A punt sent Ben back on the field. His gleeful screaming blasted through the saturation of noise, a shrill barking, a flat squeal. In the huddle, Ben got quiet and breathed out his nose. "Feel it men" he said with ambiguous punctuation, "Men you are my men I am General Ben" in a sing-song, "Men they are in our den Men".

"What's the fucking play!" yelled Hines Ward. "You feel it man I like it you can scream too," hummed Ben. "See to it, you push them on the ground, this play is me, I make it. You get ready for me, what happens, I make it." said Ben.

Ward turned to the sideline, to Coach Tomlin, straining against a play clock and a quarterback beyond his control. Two wasted timeouts earlier in the quarter, there was nothing to stop this. Byron Leftwich had his helmet, and pads on. "One play," Ward said, "and don't fucking throw it." The offense lined up accidentally and the ball came to Mad Ben's hands. He screamed two times, the sound of a lion gone rotten on the inside.

Ben motioned for the defense to come near, his shoulders rotating, his arms out at their sides, he pushed the ball into his helmet, waited. Packers' linebacker Desmond Bishop cut the busied and ungrounded offensive line and charged at Rothlisberger's immense human frame. "No" Ben said and stood his ground until Bishop needlessly leapt into the air for a highlight tackle. The quarterback's body crumbled to a shell, his fingers under the linebacker's mask. He tossed the body over his shoulder, the sound of Bishop's fat neck snapping. Rothlisberger ripped off the helmet to open the severely injured linebacker's mouth. He began to pound the football against his teeth.

An enamel dandruff was already peppering his Steelers jersey. "FACE, do you feel the ball!" Ben's quaking monstrous wail bled through the suddenly silent stadium, "FACE! Do you hear me anymore?" The players and coaches grabbed at Ben's hands and the ball, and dragged him away from the ruined face and skull of the Packer linebacker. He trashed against them, grinning, smacking his lips against his teeth, screaming, and humming.

He was bound, by ropes first, then cords until the police could enter the throng. His face was bloody and swelling from punches, "We're trying to make him stop screaming," they said, "He won't." A heavy sedative was administered, and the quarterback was dragged, finally, from the field.

Textures from Beijing

2011-02-03T21:57:00.000-06:00

Chinese Things that Present in the Aspect of Televisions

2011-02-03T16:38:00.000-06:00

Bouncing Bounding Unicorns I'm Nearly Home

2011-01-23T20:09:00.001-06:00

Make avatar

The Greatest Show on Earth

2011-01-19T04:44:00.003-06:00

Ladies, these are my eyes, he said. He plucked them out of their sockets and showed them to the crowd.

Ah, they said. He pushed them back and rolled them side to side until he could see the shapes of the women.

Show us more!

He took a knife from the table and held it over a flame until it glowed red. He sliced open his abdomen and reached inside.

Ladies, these are my intestines, he said and pulled them out a little at a time. He piled them up neatly on the table.

Ah, they said. He eased them back inside and stitched the flap shut.

Show us more, they shouted.

Show us more!

He took an ice pick from the table and pried open his chest.

See my heart, he said. It really goes.

He walked along the edge of the crowd and the ladies pointed up at his heart.

See it go, they said.

See it go!

He patted his ribs back into place and lowered his shirt.

The crowd was frantic.

Show us more!

Show us more!

The man picked up the knife again and held it over the flame. When it glowed with heat he cut a long line from the top of his head, down the middle of his face, back through his chest, and down around his waist.

He shook his bones past his organs. He jiggled them through his muscles and stepped outside.

This, he said, is my skeleton. He dropped the suit of his skin in a neat pile and danced.

Yes, yes! they shouted.

He picked his body off the ground and stepped into his legs. He shimmied until they fit right and pulled his belly and arms snug around him. He wiggled until they fit just so and slid his face over his skull.

As he stitched his bottom together a woman shouted.

His hair! His hair! I want a bit of his hair!

She jumped up and tugged at his scalp until she had a clump of it. The right side of his face fell limp at his shoulder.

His nose! another woman screamed. I need that nose for my son!

She jumped up and tore at his face until the nose came away.

Stop! Stop! shouted the man, but he had shown them too much.

His left eye! screamed one.

His right! shouted another.

I want his toes!

I want his lips!

I need his voice!

I want his heart! It goes!

The ladies clawed and pecked until they had all the pieces they wanted and ran away laughing with arms and thighs and toes.

The skeleton of the man stood in the sad pile of what was left. He tried to pat a bit of his calf into place but it fell away.

One woman stood where the crowd had stood and a tear ran down her cheek.

Will you take something too? he asked when the wind blew through his jaw.

No, she said, but I will take you home.

Here, she said and pointed to a hole carved in the ground.

The skeleton crawled inside and she crawled after.

She took his knife and cut her blankets. She cut her sheets, her pillows, and her bed too.

She took his needle and thread and sewed up a body. She filled it with stuffing and straw.

Here, she said when she was done, and he settled his bones inside.

This story first appeared in decomP. There is an audio version there as well.

2010-12-31T03:11:00.002-06:00

The Selected Wittgenstein on Aesthetics

2010-12-30T03:00:00.000-06:00

Wittgenstein on Music

It is stupid to call a piece of music Spring Melody or Spring Symphony. But "springy" wouldn’t be absurd at all.

"What is the queer rhythm which makes me wobble?"
"It is the 3 against 4."

Wittgenstein on Literature

When I read these poems I made gestures and facial expressions which were what would be called gestures of approval.

Wittgenstein on the Arts

I want to make you sad. I show you a picture, and you are sad.

I have a statue which bleeds.

I don’t make queer gestures and noise; but I do when I see a door or a face.

I draw your attention to differences and say: "Look how different these differences are!"

Wittgenstein’s thoughts about you

Suppose I give you a pill which gives you feelings in the stomach.

If we boil you at 200° C all that is left when the water vapour is gone is some ashes, etc., so this is all you really are.

If you went to Mars and men were spheres with sticks coming out, you wouldn’t know what to look for.

Look here. The molecules in the sofa attract the molecules in your brain, etc…

We would think it lack of education if you didn’t think of a rod as being made of atoms.

I predict correctly that if you lower the door, I will be satisfied.

Wittgenstein on Himself

Would it matter if instead of saying "This is lovely", I just rubbed my stomach?

What similarity has my admiring a person with my eating vanila ice and liking it?

A PAINFUL INCIDENT IN WHICH TINA HYLAND CRIES AND HELENA BONHAM-CARTER MAKES A CAMEO APPEARANCE MUCH TO THE DELIGHT OF PEOPLE WHO ARE PRONE TO DELIGHT

2010-12-27T05:52:00.003-06:00

2010-12-18T10:11:00.002-06:00

Retirement

2010-12-16T01:36:00.000-06:00

I saw a picture of the new Michael Jackson / Akon single and I thought, how dumb, it looks like gmail, but then I had nowhere to say that.

What began as a temporary crutch used in an isolating country, an isolating town, the terrible isolating suburb of the isolating town, had become a wheelchair, if we can consider that an extreme kind of crutch, so I decided to quiet down for a little while.

Being quiet means experiencing the urge to speak, but deciding not to. This seems like a far weirder experience than merely silence, because being quiet means ritual examination of your reasons for keeping shut and the styles of the compulsion you're experiencing. In the last few days, I've noticed that my compulsions group around a few related tones.

The most obvious one is a compulsion that, interestingly, I don't normally indulge; explicit or graphic stories and phrases to do with shitting or pissing. When the thought occurs to me to write about or tweet about this or that shitting adventure, I usually say to myself, "No, that wouldn't be a good idea, you already mix a lot of retarded things to compensate for feeling pretentious talking about philosophy or books, but talking about shitting would only express a sort of celebratory disgusting." I thought things like this would recede in the noise of other messages being dealt with, but every time I deal with one of those, I start to develop general theories, building from that experience that I have spent the most time with.

The second compulsion is the narrative self-confession. Related to the first one, these are usually self-effacing moments, trying to pick food off my pants in front of a class of third graders without them noticing, being confused when "Chateau" was translated "성" instead of "Castle".

Third, fourth, etc., these are strains of "news", I suppose, a community conversation, listen to this song, look at this fucking horrible thing I've just found, god, I am so fucking angry about this political issue, let me tell you about it or provoke you into a fight about it, or you've said something cruel or authoritarian and I want to yell at you for saying that.

What occur much more rarely are actual insights into either my condition or my consideration of the world. I don't mean this as a flagellation, oh, I am so devoid, no, I'm more interested in this as craft. Time goes into these sentences and word placements, into long range stylistic trends, into the conversations and relationships that undergird them. At least under this sign, these are traditional craft hours, a work done without any special purpose, perhaps to form a general shape of myself as a slack sail to be taken by an intense thrust.

I think I miss trading music the most. The entire trajectory of a technological period has made music appreciation so autistic that our culture has malformed us to retain the sociality of music: the posturing and signalling, the "I am this kind of musical consumer" tone of contemporary music discussions. But as the social aspect is eaten up, it becomes another "managed" aspect of life, material to be circulated and played with, to hide feints and false bottoms and hide yourself and the mistake of an earlier generation of music listeners: the "opinion". It's got a dialectical shape to it. It's also where bringing pleasure to a person is most clear, and, in rare moments of conflicting aggrandizement, it can even escape this stupid trap and let the old idealist myth of a "social" back in.

2010-12-12T14:23:00.000-06:00

2010-12-11T18:53:00.000-06:00

"If I Were a Boy..."

2010-12-09T00:21:00.000-06:00

Things my girl students would do, if they, in the manner of Beyoncé and Reba, were a boy:

1. have short hair

2. like work

3. not buy a skirt

4. be silky

5. have a big dong

6. smell cat

7. get a test zero score (example sung gi jung)

8. make a mistake

9. have a gun

10. catch the thief

11. yell at the thief

12. be very silly, because not hard study

13. grow a beard

14. have a robot and gun

15. buy accessories for my girlfriend

16. gold is very many

17. smoke outside

18. fight someone

19. have a healthy, strong body

20. get a gun

21. shoot a gun because boys are exciting

22. fight, because I’m strong

23. be tall, because my friends are all tall

24. eat most favorite food and sleep because I don’t have an idea (fat)

25. go to the army because go to army rules

26. get a gun and play computer games and enjoy.

27. perhaps I could drink much soju

28. I could swear bad words

29. just be free and not study, I would enjoy my life because this is my dream

2010-12-01T05:54:00.000-06:00

2010-11-22T14:56:00.001-06:00

Gingerbread

2010-11-16T09:04:00.001-06:00

I didn't have any coffee last night, or yesterday, or this morning. I haven't had any for days, I'm remembering. I feel uncoordinated, or woozy. There is a cafe near the bus stop. I need change for the bus. I walk into the coffee shop. The man behind the counter says, "Hello," in a Canadian accent. I ignore him, to speak Korean, "Anyong Haseyo." "What can I get for you?" he says, in his Canadian accent. "Eseupeuresso hana juseyo," I say, ordering espresso one give me please. "For here or to go?" he asked, in a Canadian accent. I am at the limit of my Korean. "To go," I say. "Here, " he says, in a canadian accent. "This is handmade." He hands me a small gingerbread man, but thick. "We are a new store, so this is a welcoming gift." "Kamsahamnida," I say, as a thank you. "Here is a discount card for the future, when you return. "Kamsahamnida," I say, again. "Thank you for coming." "Kamsahamnida." I say.

I climb on the bus. All the seats are full. A young woman gets up and offers her seat to an older man. Nobody gets up to let me sit, even though I want to. I grab the bar near the back door and feel in my pocket for my cookie. "This is going to be delicious," I am thinking. It is green and freckled with cinnamon maybe. It will be minty, with cinnamon, or perhaps Green Tea flavor. There is an old woman standing near me and she smiles when I pull out the cookie. I am deciding to interpret her smile as a glare, because some Koreans get upset about people eating in public. It's considered rude. "Fuck you!" I think about the old woman's smile, as I interpret it, "I eat where I want!" I unwrap my small, thick cookie. I thought about its shape as a man. I will eat it limb by limb and then its head and then the torso last. I bit off one leg, the right leg.

Oh, it tastes gross, first like ginseng or ginger, fucking Korean cookies, this is a sweet! Make it fucking sweet and don't put herbs in it! Fucking Korean cookies! "Handmade," he said, something told me. "Handmade." Handmade cookies, they taste like shit, I try to swallow it and choke a little bit. I want to vomit, over a cookie? My mouth starts to foam. "Handmade." In his Canadian accent, that man hadn't said "Cookie", had he. He said "Handmade". And what is a "Handmade" cookie? They're "Homemade", no? What kind of things are "Handmade"? Socks. Sweaters. Crafts, like a birdhouse. Soap.

Oh, soap. Oh, soap. Oh, this is soap in my mouth. Cookies foam less than this does, this soap. I look at the old woman. She is not looking at me. I hope she's not upset that I didn't offer her soap to eat. "You're lucky, old woman." I feel poorly for assuming about her. Now I've got the food in my mouth, and it's soap. I feel poorly. I don't want to sicken this woman, not after judging her. She, or I through her, has made me acutely aware of my primary social transgression. A part of me also doesn't want to admit that eating in public is dangerous, that this is a possible penalty for avoiding small social norms, soap in your mouth. I can't spit it out, then, doubly. It's only a small piece, anyway. When I was a kid, I had to eat soap when I sang a rhyming song about a "vagina" and a "penis", or once called an adult an "asshole". If I chew it, it will be much smaller, I reason. If I chew it and then pour the espresso over the small pieces, it might overwhelm them, or become a ginseng or ginger or soap tinge to espresso, only unpleasant, not horrible. I chew and drink, but the soap gets stuck in the angles of my teeth and the espresso makes the foaming worse, more elaborate. I want to vomit. I chew and chew and swallow, the motion of my throat produces more bubbles that fill my mouth. I salivate, the soap has coated the inside of my cheeks, I salivate and produce more bubbles. I press the button, the get off button. My mouth expands. If I swallow, I will vomit. Soap rings my teeth. I can feel it where I can't taste it. I push the button, the woman is still not looking at me.

2010-11-02T00:25:00.002-05:00

2010-11-01T02:22:00.002-05:00

2010-10-21T23:00:00.001-05:00

House

2010-10-21T17:53:00.005-05:00

"You grim cocksucker," he said to a grasshopper, as a
gesture of friendship. His shoes fumbled off in his hand
and he beat on the thing, but it scampered away.

Directly beneath the arch to the north side of the room,
spatially the same coordinates but in a lower elevation,
was squatting a man in a shirt with stripped ruffles and
a shiny suit the color of ground-beef, with a faux-
pocket-square sewed in to his south.

To his north, the larger of the two rooms. Smooth
floors, big fat walls made up to look like newsprints.
Tin double doors, one open to a street. "People on
the street could pick up rocks and throw them in
through my door for good luck." The room closed
toward a narrow at the far end. He couldn't, our man in
the suit, he couldn't see if the room closed or just got
very narrow and dark and continued on outside or
toward a further, third room.

To his south, the smaller room, with a similar
floor. The west wall had degraded, holes or
brick or glass or sheetrock and wallpaper on the floors
of both its eastern and western sides. The rain came in
through the hole a few days and the floor near the
western wall was breaking and sinking. The top
keep getting knocked down and splashing water
on the man while disfiguring the shape of the floor.
The other walls in this room were as they were
when he had been introduced to them earlier.

There was neither furniture in room to his south nor to
his north. He was squatting again, balancing against
the western edge of the arch. Furniture would have
suited the rooms. One elaborate couch drawn out
into a thin beam. A set of animal skin hung on loosely
to shaped and unprocessed plastics. Portico chairs.

"You could sit also in this way." to no-one and the man
sat down toward the east. He put his hands inside his
suit and tickled himself. A furious energy then got in him
and he took to his suit, ripping it, into a gradient. He
stopped. "This was my only pair of pants." and pushed the
scraps to his north, barely into the big room. He hesitated
and began to talk for a little while, as if giving a lecture.

There was a few pound of bindings to his south. He
could muster them upon themselves and shape them
into something comfortable. He put them instead into a
chain and set into them his shoelaces and his belt, the
scraps of his pants, an organization of twine, the last
pieces of paper in his pockets. He pointed his fist at the
sun, out the hole. "Never stop exploding."

Interception

2010-10-21T16:42:00.002-05:00

The Very World

2010-10-21T07:51:00.000-05:00

Forward pitch, in enthusiasm
Supposed it to have gone to scraps,
"It can burn up in the open!" came shouting

Torn apart, them and their flammable cores
There are fires now! we were told, inside
the very world! came shouts
Where at last, we might find happiness or nothing at all! came shouting

Fragments don't burn. Heaps only smoke.
In midst of fragments, bugs and turtles eat and
rug about in sharper pieces. Supposed it to be bliss, when
there was enthusiasm for affairs to take
the attractions of a country in romance.
Attractions are for children. We interlude.
Enthusiasm is impossible in the absence of God came shouting.

To be alive in the very world,
Oh to be alive is very empty

2010-10-19T03:01:00.003-05:00

October Sky

2010-10-18T04:51:00.002-05:00

Between Seals

2010-10-16T05:33:00.000-05:00

Is placement of seals above indicating confidence or placement of text between seals.

PC Bang Rendering of a Photo Section

2010-09-21T23:28:00.000-05:00

Aaron and Unterkultur

2010-09-19T23:35:00.000-05:00

"We champion subculture, we believe authority should be challenged, but at the same time, are the two contradictory?"

There are two ways this subculture problem could be approached.

Subculture supposes a standard against which we and our things are measured, a sort of underlying authority which causes the existence of "authorities" in the first place, really just figures who approach norms and manipulate structures properly.
By setting up a subculture that is perhaps even non-normative or non-authoritiative, there is the initial act of setting it up which is authoritative, even authorial. This setting it up and then later venerating it, sets us up as standards to be listened to, even if the standard we're being listened to about is non-normative. In practical terms, this probably means that we become the norms that shape the subculture and its implicit authorities.

But are they contradictory? No, I don't think so. Maybe they're naive. But they're also effective. Maybe subculture isn't the right word, communities is a little bit idiotic, parties is best. Parties get started and people go on to them. In some cases, they only started because we told everyone how great they were going to be, and so they came and made it great. There are authorities, but they're aesthetic ones: "I like that guy or girl, they are entertaining or funny or pleasing, this combination of people or this place or this music or the person I appear to be in this environment, they're all pleasing or more pleasing than the alternative."

At the same time, I think we should be careful about "believing authority should be challenged." In order to not be worried about potential authority seeping into our parties, we have to set them up as the goal, the purpose of the things. It starts to seem like we would only challenge authority if it led to better parties and meeting better and more aesthetically quality people. I think this is exactly the right sort of attitude! It's my firm conclusion that the only reason to ever give a shit about politics or wars or injustice or authority is if it produces little communities that are terrific. If somebody tells me about how much they don't like authority, that's a signal that maybe they aren't an asshole in all these ways that people who like authority are. It means I won't have to have arguments I'm tired of. It means they'll tolerate my own variants of being opposed to authority without getting angry and spoiling the nice party by taking offense at something horrible I said about America. A lot of the people I like have these attitudes, so I connect them, but it's more than that. There's a bond over a common enemy, probably some similar complaint or injustice. There's something to talk about when the party starts to lull, or you're feeling uncomfortable, "Yeah, that President, he's a real peice of shit, did you hear about this new shitty thing," the same way people talk about sports or the things they did during the day. If we're getting specific, and I am, the way in which you are anti-authority, that is, I am anti-authority in the way of a twenty-something white kid in south Minneapolis, well you're going to have tastes in common, films and music, activities. You're going to have some common lifestyle that you wouldn't share with those fucking embarrassing old people who come and talk complete shit at every anti-war rally you ever went to.

Maybe this isn't really my attitude and I'm going to some kind of extreme to answer the question, but it's a mode of thinking that seems more and more clear to me.

I have everything to tell you.

2010-09-14T23:48:00.002-05:00

2010-09-13T23:05:00.000-05:00

We champion subculture,
we believe authority should be challenged,
but at the same time, are the two contradictory?

The Sandbox Turned Into an Art Project, and Everyone Died

2010-09-13T11:25:00.002-05:00

We can spend all our life trying to build. I've been told this house will get built some day. I don't know when we're naming while we build things and the things about names.

There's no problem here, in this house. Think about that. You called it. No big deal. Everyone wants this. Rainbow here and Everyone fine. We're rainbow in this house and okay.

rainbow and everyone is fine. rainbows don't come.

There's a danger. Suppose you can form memory cells. Think about how loose and inappropriate they are instantly, outburst from a full, unused form.

contrive to have

a spontaneous , themselves do not require

a clutch of name figures horizontally stretching whereas previously vertical.

in a carelessly named mix, without subtlety, given omnisciently, usually in it

This is how they think of their own, when they lie to me, imagine I will always appear.

You can't have this. unless it's official but not yet, I'll avoid that and you, and having stolen it from down below. It doesn't fit. Bones to the things on which you hang.

memory cells sticky like chewed gum,

sticky like sentence left for months,

sticky like simulating conversation, who knows how to name next.

Now where you're given to life before-before being called, names even being indicated. In the aftermath, never as the given prior. And 'm not talking about a huddling-naming, I hope, this isn't something insignificant, to think it's rare and useless or better. about medieval tapestries of linguistic being. Supposing that it's that has to be described, together we let this have-been-named.

its this word, rainbows not a rainbow

come and say hello, that's a word too.

word isn't good word anymore

It was dinosar bones that you were paying rent on.

Fucking rent, on dinosaur bones. Paying it. 'sabsurd.

all of a sudden the anymore

I've never been there, or elsewhere

you heard?

go ghosts ahead, what you thought.

that was a house but ,

Until some ghosts , and then , because we never built it. Suddenly the rainbow, we built it in this house.

You think that I named that a house, that's not helpful. You think that I named that a mortgage and the names of the money to pay it. You think that I named that, that I am capricious, that only you've been building, one by one, slowly, meaning on the thing you can claim.

Recent Delusions

2010-09-10T12:20:00.001-05:00

There are neuroses that can afflict you, when you're in an odd place. Losses of abilities, strange paranoias. You can begin to see yourself as a loose collection of traits, as an archetype, and your world can become something of an experiment that is passing you by as you try desperately to keep up with the new findings entering your sense organs. Desperate generalizations are formed, sometimes very hastily, pieces of knowledge get stuck with you that you aren't sure where they've come from but seem so clear and distinct that when you find out they're nonsense, you don't know what to blame.

But the neuroses are the most interesting. Many times it's the inability to disrupt habits. This summer, my school turned off the power to my bathroom, a little used one in a dark corner of the school. Instead of going to one of the dozen other bathrooms, I decided to shit in the dark for a month. I'm not sure why, except that if I went to another bathroom, I wouldn't be sure always that it would have the few things I had come to know existed here, and therefore to need: toilet paper, a sit-down style toilet, a door, a lock to keep out children. The one time I used another bathroom, I was mobbed and grabbed at while trying to use the urinal, so excited were the kids at the new hairy giant who was pissing right where they themselves pissed. So a lock, certainly, to keep out children, that I knew was here.

Further neuroses start to spring up, secondary ones. Fear that someone might see me going into the dark, powerless bathroom and wonder why, or worse, know why. That someone might ask, bizarrely, which bathroom I was now using and I would have to lie about something so pointless and thereby be found out, not just as someone who shits in the dark, but someone who lies about where they do it.

Along similar lines is the habit of cutting yourself off to experiences which are difficult to maneuver, sometimes only slightly more difficult than the things I might do everyday. Purchasing furniture seems impossible, along with new cookware. A strange gold-colored tin pot has been my only source of boiling water for six months, even though proper pots with normal colors are available to me. There is a dwindling aspect to this as well; grocery shopping has become fewer and fewer items every time something strange happens, like a three-person brigade being dispatched to bring me the free supplementary item, the "service" that I was too illiterate to realize went with my noodles, or an embarrassingly thorough apology for the item that was prematurely marked as on sale. Mushrooms and onions have never given me these problems, so I purchase mushrooms and onions.

A converse to this rule is that places where I have already been ludicrous or incompetent are preferred to similar or identical places where I am an unknown. There is a kimbap shop around the corner from my school, a thousand won for a roll of rice and vegetables wrapped in seaweed. My first go led to my accidentally being given an entire sit down meal, just as I was rushing somewhere, and my flustered attempt to pay for it while explaining that I couldn't possibly eat this, but I understood the inconvenience my error had caused. They wouldn't accept my money, and looked at me with exhaustion the next time I came in, frozen near the door. They suggested I sit down, but I pretend not to understand, in case they mistook me again, and stood strangely for several uncomfortable minutes. There is a kimbap shop two or three doors down from this one, where I might have gone the second time, but maybe they have even more difficult procedures or maybe they wouldn't have the experience of my first error and it would all happen again.

More broadly, it is sometimes only small cultural failures which serve to restrict and confine what seems like a possible way of behaving.. In the middle of the Daegu summer, the buses close their windows and air-condition themselves frozen, but I thought of cars, and how it feels to put your arm outside, so that while you sit in traffic, the sun burns down on your skin and hair until you begin to move again and a breeze whips a relief around you that feels artificial and incomplete. I turned the blaring air-conditioner away from me and opened my window, just a crack, just enough to put my arm next to it and feel something. The bus stopped and the driver came to my seat, pointing at the air conditioning, turning it back to my face. "I don't want it on me," I said, a reaction of meaningless English, and pushed it away from my face. He reached across me and closed the window before returning to his seat to turn off the air-conditioning. Was this for my benefit, to allow my comfort above all else? In a sense, of course, but only to make me the target of the angry, sweaty stares. These moments provoke us, the Koreans and I, to fulfill the simple roles placed in front of us, Individual and Collective, me imposing myself on an entire bus for wanting to be different. "What a stupid way to go about this." I was upset, but there was nothing to do, nothing to explain, even if I had a working grasp on Korean to explain myself. It wasn't my language, it was my behavior which was inexplicable and will remain so for the rest of my time here.
More seriously, being a racial minority who is mostly tolerated has dangerous effects on relations with people. Someone shouts something at you, some shopkeeper becomes increasingly uncomfortable that you're sitting in their shop, that it begins to affect the tone of the entire society. Maybe working through average problems would always have been a nightmare, but now the insane results seem suspiciously racial. Soon, every unpleasant event is given a small racial component, a racial possibility that, while tiny in each case, seems overwhelming when it becomes ever present: "That car almost hit me, perhaps because there isn't a strong pedestrian culture here, but maybe it was a lack of concern for the health of white monkeys". Soon, it isn't just unpleasantness, but my own interaction with reality, my own failures get racially coded, so when the woman at the 7/11 doesn't speak English, even though this is the expected and most common result, it seems for a moment that I can see why I've expected this shitty result for so long; she chooses not to speak English, because she thinks I'm a disgusting bearded cockroach.

These walking paranoid fever dreams are scary when they happen, but they have a way of terminating themselves pretty quickly, reaching a level of immorality or illogic that wakes me up, returns me to the floating incompetent feeling.

Sometimes, however, the neuroses metastasize with dangerous and insane results, when these elements combine and stretch into broad, recursive nets of foreigner stimulus. For extreme reactions, there needs to be a careful balance between the following:

Satisfaction with one's self, one's living condition
Strangeness of behaviors, forms, rules and expectations.
Conversely, a closeness with ways of behaving at home, one that is wrong but still keeps a strong hold on the instincts.
Repeated bad encounters, accidents and errors.
Enabling co-conspirators, whose weaknesses either bizarrely match your own, or between you provide a full complement of errors.

If these factors hold true long enough, they will add a sixth, shame, where confronting the problem, asking for help, investigating the conditions, all become impossible and the grid sustains itself, invisible to the agitated observer like a tumor bulging out from under the skin, obviously present, but look, it's the same color as the rest of my body, I'll let it be for now.

And so, this is how we came to live in squalor:

It began the first day, when we were told about the highly complicated Korean recycling program. It didn't seem too complex, they recycle the normal objects, plastic bottles, glass bottles, cans, etc., a few exceptions to the normal objects, a few additions too.

The bags started to pile up. The bins weren't marked, so unless someone had thrown something away already, we would be guessing from one out of twenty. The compost bins were obvious, the smell and rot overflowing, but everything else go put into confused piles and bags and piled in complicated systems. Maybe this bag was mostly garbage, but before the current theory of plastic/garbage integration. Current theories became easier to come by as we stopped taking the garbage out altogether. Our kitchen fell under stacks, of cardboard, pizza boxes, plastic containers. We began to have to maneuver around our garbage, to give in to it. It insisted.

In the more serious case of organic material, we could set it outside the door to rot and after a few days, someone else would take it away. Once I threw it in the woods across the street. Once, the food trap sat for weeks, collecting. Next to the other bags, maybe it was masked, or became empty rotted nutrition-free husks, intimidating me by being so inoffensive, or maybe it was going to be awful and I pretended I could leave it in there forever. When I opened it up, my vomit poured onto the floor and the sink, indistinguishable in smell or texture from the revealed food.

It scattered itself deep around the house. Putting anything into a bag required a recalibration of whatever present state of plastic and paper theory we had reached. Maybe that plastic can sit there for now. If I put it into a bag, odds are I will be wrong, let's wait until we get a day to really sit down and figure these cans out and then I can pick up this small piece of garbage.

For months this continued, plans of midnight runs to the garbage cans always torn apart by the logistics of carrying that many bags, why not take less bags, because this was the grips of madness, a kind of fear-hording. The bags that did find themselves to the garbage were even worse, realizations of how simple it was to get right, confirmation that any error was more and more serious, that twenty or thirty bags of trash and rotten food were going to have to remain inside, the foundation for the future pyramids of garbage. A permanent squalor ensued, salvaged only by long vacations, every woken minute spent out of the house and away from the shifting pit of trash. Is that bag from the first week we moved it, we could ask, and know that it was, or it was identical to another beneath it that was. Is that box from May, it sure is, it's so big, isn't it, it takes up all that space. We have extra space. Don't worry.

Between us, it would have gone on forever. I thought, for a day or so, about diverting the second bedroom into a garbage den. I thought about crying to the garbage man. I thought about dumping it all in the river.

I'm not sure what caused the break, and less sure what caused the return of normalcy. I took the garbage out last week, no less than seven months of papers and dust and and cat litter and hair and piles of flies that had been waiting for an apocalypse and had only died wonderful well-fed lives. It took about an hour. I don't feel any different.

Build It.

2010-09-09T23:30:00.002-05:00

1. noun __________
2. verb + ing __________
3. adverb __________
4. noun __________
5. large number __________
6. verb __________
7. adjective __________
8. noun __________
9. large number __________
10.repeat #9 __________
11.noun __________
12.noun __________
13.verb __________
14.verb __________
15.verb __________
16.noun __________
17.repeat #16 __________

Build It.

Sometimes I am __________.

The __________ sky pins me __________ to the ground.
Gravity, an old friend __________, haunting me
for __________ years. Me and gravity
__________, always have, and we do it together, now.
Apart, past.
And from a __________ piece that has
been __________ for __________ years.
__________ years __________ and __________.

__________ it.
__________ it.
__________ it.
__________ it.

__________ it hard to you.

xoxoxo

2010-09-09T09:18:00.005-05:00

burnpile

2010-09-09T04:01:00.002-05:00

2010-09-09T02:46:00.007-05:00