November 19th, 2014
A man playing a guitar under the aqueduct – analogy beginning -warm raindrops dance on a surface of a dirty river – i can’t give you no money, can’t save you, can trace the ashes of burned villages and towns to the birth of them all, Gandhi or Jesus. Analogy enters the visions. All I can do is wait for the coach to call my number, somebody to pass me the ball (pass the goddamn ball!). We can’t win, but we can go out with a four point play. A! David Foster Wallace, infinitely jesting, still on the bookstore shelf. I can dream the end of night, the dawn, the whitening of the skies. Can map you a plan of all the city aqueducts, can’t stop the rain, though. Can’t cancel the funeral, or the music. Taking three wooden planes for reminiscence, you laughing in a beautiful black dress. A beggar of vagabonds, a penniless coin, pour me the glass of your cheapest wine. Pour me half, so I can walk back in straight line. Find me a bed, a mattress, something to lay my bones into. She’s, of Ethiopian genealogy, talking in a language I can’t understand, but the voice I do. I, nodding my head, skip another passerby. Philosophical axioms catching up on my life as I trip on a leg of infinite emptiness. Do I dream, don’t I? Do you?
Nature has made me so that I don’t fit in any life, and I’ve tried many. nature has made me so that I could be cut up and rearranged. I can’t do the same for you, I have no right to. Keep on plucking your guitar, king of ducks. Some day you’ll wake up and scare the crows off my slumbering body, so I can continue on working thing out, cause one can’t work them in – they weigh a hyperton. The line of reasoning getting lost, metaphorically speaking, into the tiny frequential breaths of a speciesless bird, that just, for the sake of unknown, decided to empty its bowels onto unsuspecting head of a bronze sculpture, bended downwards as if to feel the gravity of its fate. The eyes, that don’t belong to you, close shut and dare to dream for you. The rhythm slows down so you gain fat, dancing.
Is it your watch, monsieur? You know you have to stay here for another second, at least.
November 9th, 2014
Certain Quentin the Sweetheart (knowers of Lithuanian language will easily recognize whom I’m referring to) has posited, that nothing, except contingent things, necessarily exists – in other words – only necessary being is Chaos.
How so, one asks, if reason (science, mathematics) shows us, that things are orderly?
I want you to imagine being in a dream – that you are almost simultaneously a robot in 2500 AD and a nomad of 5000 BC. Certainly both experiences are nothing alike, and while certain order is found in both of them, it probably is a different order for both kinds (of experience).
Ok, if it’s still not clear where I’m going – these are two parts of Chaos, for robot – nomad experience wouldn’t make sense, for nomad, well, obviously, vice versa. They are both orderly only from certain spacetime point, let’s assume, from me being woken up and thinking of both (overlapping) dreams. Here we find third order. Third part of Chaos.
It seems like Chaos wants us to see order, yet have no clue of an experience of different possible world inferred from the rules of this order.
Everything is orderly, but doesn’t make sense.
Nothing is orderly, but (it) makes sense.
Wouldn’t it be somewhat in character of Chaos to have a part of its existence that necessarily wants to show/see other parts as consistent, as orderly? A sort of an eye of Chaos, that is possible for very specifically configured spacetime. Necessary contingency that sees itself as contingent necessity. For a chaosmic second. Which could last a human life, perhaps some more. A part, which at some point undoubtedly will stop existing, chaos, thus and then, becoming blind.
To understand and to feel are two different things, yet, we feel like we can understand, and we understand that without feeling, our orderly acceptance of spacetime flow becomes nothing. Like a mimicry of chaos without its seeing part.
I can understand you, but i can’t feel you – this is a maxim, which delivers us from evil. And good.
I can’t understand you, but I feel you – this is a recognition of our humility and chaotic humanity, or, simply put, Chaos as existing through its eye.
There’s a space here for ethics and politics, but the time is not yet.
As I conceive those things in a half-dreaming state, I ascertain myself to explicate what I mean, because it all suddenly makes sense, yet I keep getting sleepier and the thought of Quentin the Sweetheart makes me sad. As if I had lost a friend (which everyone has done) in a chaotic misunderstanding.
I am now a robot in its dying stages, but since I am a robot (I, at the time), in my dying moment I know myself as a nomad, as butterfly and as a failed half-mad, and probably a bit more stupid than that, writer. I also know myself as many more things, some violently necessary, some gently contingent.
The beeping of a by-flying empty spacecraft sucks out my last moments of awareness, subsequently killing me.
I live no longer as a robot. I die as one.
Perhaps I will, in some distant dream, be reborn as an already dead famous French philosopher, who is best known for having inspired shortly, but widely lived political stance, which main slogan proclaimed: we can’t understand robots, but you can try feeling them, which, for its part, will have had inspired endless scholastically oriented debates about the meaning of a first self-portrait of a robot (of a dubious authenticity), signed with transelectricaly engraved equation: 1+1= ↑
October 23rd, 2014
Bernardo Soares’ stature rises above the ruins of Detroit, Michigan, as I sit by the river that hasn’t yet got a name. Piles of stone, concrete and iron lie across it, and I dream of having an ability to soften the old waste parts of once young and great city, just so as to rebuild the glory and heart of it, in order for at least one dream of the most famous bookkeeper not to disperse.
If I could just swim across the river, lay my wet bones and skin on blocks, bricks, tiles, so they become workable again and then get myself into it as numbers fall off the ascending prosaic.
Make something work.
Make this shit work.
The ruins of Bernardo Soares’ stature rise above Detroit, Michigan. Half mad fisherman sits by the great lake. Fish dream of words there are no things for.
For some unknown reason – known unreason – there is a Russian border patrol nearby. I point to the whitening skies, where a ghost of the bookkeeper’s silhouette is becoming transparent. Look, I say, stature of Bernardo Soares! Instead of doing that, Russian border patrol arrests me on the charge of trespassing. The time is pure future – with no past or present. And is spoken about in future perfect.
This will have been my dystopian utopia. Or utopian dystopia, depending on the definition one gives to a glass that has an appearance of having equal amount of air and water in it.
August 21st, 2014
all lines scattered – desert, all ways get lost – sea, all walks lose their tracks – the sky, the mountain – one has no words to say what lies – love, resistance, the heaviness of heavens, one, if there to be found such, has its being right at the horizon of the desert, the sea and the sky, all the cities buried, the streets, the signs, all the forests buried and no path left uncovered, the stars, the eyes of the dead vagabonds, one, if there is to be any, at the center of the unmapped waters, sand, still, swayed by continuous tides, the moon as close as possible for there to be the line to pass, if the one found another, and a rock, might save her, might throw it at him, might start rapping the verses of a mad lover, of a hated enemy, one thus better alone, while wayless seaing, deserting, starring, salt eating the rest of ropes, sandpapering the remaining colours, of the pages there is left nothing, but the dust for black holes, keep going, when the meaning of it has been deserted by all sense, one has no choice, but to decide to jump, off, on, springwater, skyscraper, houses of sand, breaking her head at the craters of Mars, burning his eyebrows in the rivers of Venus, losing one’s breath in the winds of Neptune, sea washing the bones on desert shores, whole countries frozen in the mountains of ice, one, at the horizon of a sea, a desert and a sky, an argonaut, an astronomer, an aloner, how true your words would have been, if there were ears, how sweet your heart, if there be other ones, now head cracked open, worms of all walks of death, the noise of the silence, the grey of the transparent, the future empires, inhabited by hell knows what, inverted, reversed, cut through, smelted, piece by piece, the limits of your imagination end here, they end now, at the point of horizon, between the sea, the desert and the sky, faint face of no one, withering of each one, freedom of the momentary one, horror of loved ones, love of the monster one, end one
July 20th, 2014
a trail, for whatever reason, amidst the trees, a forest, a way, neither started nor ended, at some indefinite point, where one, if not moving, may reach places beyond the limits of absolute speed – a train, perhaps, or a route in roundabouts, that creates a center only to have it divided by paths, coming out of nowhere, now-where, everywhere, the downhill ride uphill battle, a serpent, a rabbit, a skeleton, the viaduct, a road, that records blood of those which cross it, also a sweat of those which found happiness, however liquid it was, caressed to utmost fatigue by the suns, vapourising, evaporating, love traveling skywards only to be absolved into interstellar vacuum, a trace, nonetheless, trapped in comets of ice, whose paths scared ancients so much as to set the ones, who knew the way, or at least a part of it, on fire, the devil’s way, the way the bitch walks, signs signifying the lostness in the world, of the world, the stupid marching, those of pious or beaten heart – on their knees, and yet there are ones that never took a step, born on crossroads, remaining there, and it’s impossible to tell their faces – whether they are abysmally joyous or infinitely sad, the wise men open their mouths – one should be able to deduce the way out of their teeth, tongue and movement of cheeks, more so often than not one would just get sucked into the habits of their arteries, formed through years trying to remember – and thus live – the path that took them to certainties at the time seemingly insoluble in the rains that came pouring through the leaves, soaking the woods, flooding all land, everyman for anyway, but a child, who knows nothing of the methods used to the point of abuse to make her lose his idle wonder, wander
June 15th, 2014
some threads end with the needle, end in the entrails of the beast, some threads become ropes, and a rope becomes a line, a trope, some ropes have men swinging on their curved ends, while a wind makes a sound, that can’t be put in lines, some men wait forever at the line, some cross them, some lines are stepped over, mistaken for straight ones, and so they bind, tapes, a ribbon, some lines get entangled, knotted, try make sense of them, cut them, pulverize them, snort them, the line of blood, the lines of curvatures, some lines make a noise, some get travelled through, some end around your neck, beating, a bass, wired to infinite openings, some strangle and burn you, some men follow their hairline, some a company line, airline, some can’t wait to jump the line, break it and bend it, make a web, thread it, hang a bucket off it, none of the lines have definite meaning, except the ones that end in rows, chained ones, imprisoned in vicious circles – the death of the line, spiral – the lifeline, some are endless and thus only presumed to be lines, some form figures, that can’t be accounted, only counted, manically attended to, some lines disappear as you approach them, some remain there even if you run (from), line of attack, line of a defense, multiplied, magnified, made hardly visible, all encompassing, stringed – the lie of the line, the truth of the line – lost, going offline
May 8th, 2014
The words that you steal are the words that you lie with.
The words that you borrow are the words that you expose yourself with.
The words that you bleed are the words that have yet to make sense:
you drown in that, teaching yourself to swim,
you die in that, learning to survive.
Life will come later. For most times – already too late.
Cue sun rays, lost in an orgy of innocence, way over your head.
The virgin lands you observe from a distance of red waters.
Come alone, they say.
Leave us together.
April 16th, 2014
The first spring winds, fast they blow the death of winter, whirling through your brain the sweat, the black, the aches.
The famine is over as you lay your teeth into chocolate buns, swallowing milk as people gather. Not much learned, and whatever that was, will have to endure the intense bouts of heat.
But for now, lower your eyelids and contemplate the opening of the skies – infinite as it has been postulated, proof waiting ever closer.
The dogs playing for bitches.
The beer brewing for seasoned encounter among birches.
You let yourself rhyme, feel stupid.
Fuck shame, join useless.
March 27th, 2014
Leave the pupil of chaos for some other place.
As of now, you are lying on the short green grass. It’s not established whether it’s late autumn or middle of the spring. You lie almost powerless, weightless and it’s insignificant to decide whether you are dying or on the threshold of birth.
While powerless, you feel sure and tender force of the transparent heavens – played through by bug feet passing on your skin.
In the noisy silence of early night or early morning you let your voice bypass the laws of language and follow the miniscule truth of being neither here, nor there. Directionless, right where.
It would be of dubious intent to try and decipher your moans, to prescribe your joy some nouns.
At times when your heart gets arrested, you lose the measure of your surroundings – the under or above the earth.
And so you travel, motionless, while the bug crossing your lips basks in the light of burning stars.
March 7th, 2014
Doubling of dreams – one for the night, another – for the future. Keeping oneself sane by risking to know the borders of madness. Dozen, or so, modes of truth exceeded by ways it is said.
Skies falling as they ever were, making sure the trade of beds stays in constant busyness.
Count not the times of night you found yourself wake, just having escaped becoming somebody’s eyes. There is no set of all possible dreams, each withering away at its own pace.
Car crashes, fatal wounds, worms forgotten behind. Till blindness.
You’re nobody’s vision, don’t kid yourself, even less one of God.
Dreams are like petrol for bicycles – burning them down. Going out in flames, the precise frame left to meditate on.
Best done this while lying horizontally.