March 10th, 2015
At time, between dusk and dark, i think of the smallness of my life. My hut is tiny, i have to bend to go through the door. It barely has enough floor to accommodate two people – all mattress, no space for anything else. My needs are few, scattered on a little shelf – tea, sugar, strawberry jam, coffee, some bread, herring, a bottle of sauce and some whisky. On a child size bed, above and behind my sleeping pillow, a backpack and what can find its place on it – a book, some cds, few pieces of clothing and vitamins. My head lies close to the concrete part of the wall, my body, in a sleeping bag, feels the air coming through the door gap formed by the cable going under it.
I need nothing much more. My life is small. I think and i watch the sky, the mountains and the sea surrounding the city. I hear its distant drone. The silence and the emptiness. As if there’s nothing else, but dreams. As if the smallness of my life makes me live in dreams. Closed by the groundless abyss and infinite heavens – my mind has nowhere else to go, but dreamworlds.
And so my life – even to the point where i don’t know if i’m dreaming, i become a dreamt life. And as in a dream, so in life, i am capable of extremely chancy things. Tending to be someone first and then somebody else in a matter of milliseconds.
As a creature of no identity, just the one of being between abyss and infinity, and so infinitesimal, i have no control of my dream. The atheistic randomness of it lets me understand what is meant by the two most used characteristics of a god: allpowerfull and allkind – almighty and benevolent, otherwords.
For all power is the one that is not limited – the power of creating or destroying anything at anymoment, out of groundless abyss, up to infinite heavens. A true dream uninterrupted by smallness of life.
Allkindness is loving everything at all moments – undifferentiated, for the good, the bad and the ugly – a pure dream escaped from the smallness of life.
And so i think, whether the smallness of my life is a definite argument against the existence of god. For if there is life, however insignificant, there is a limit (to and of power and love) – a moment of waking up. But since i live and am as the one who is dreamt – being kind and violent at the same time – breaking the hearts that i love most kindly, i wonder whether being an atheist is, in a somewhat inexplicable way, being a god.
Yet, all of this is false. The groundless abyss forbids one to dream truly, and infinite heavens – to dream purely: by simply circumventing the need for belief – there’s no need to believe in what one dreams (or how one dreams) – all of power, all of kindess is just given for free and taken for granted in the easiness of a split second.
You can’t believe in what you dream, for there is no need of verification of any kind (which is the source of belief) in a chaotic life of a dream or a dream of a life, which, by being random and chaotic, is most transparent, and thus blind, in a subverted sense of this concept – nothing limits your visions.
Dreams, if correctly analyzed, are the source of disbelief – when one has dreamt, one has become accustomed to smile at belief. And so neither the truth of life, which is smallness, nor the universe of dreams, which is unbelievable, tends godwards.
And so one is rightly and truly between groundless abyss and infinite heavens, crying and laughing as a mad god – writing a teology about its unbelievable inexistence.
As lovable and as powerless as a drunk sailor, lost in a rubber boat, floating on a swimming pool.
February 7th, 2015
There were three gold-miners on a long poll, drinking silver tequila. The sun, drying the sweat of the heat, blistered off metal plates – the noise of white colour in sunshine. In the intervals of cough, you could hear them talking, which made no sense, their words and your ears. A gap, of no precise measure, extending between the listener and the speech. Like a too heavy book, that one is unable to read lying down on her back – because all reading must be done in such a position as to let one rest his eyes while looking at the blue or white grey of the sky – to let it interrogate the book – the book that loses the line of sight and interest; too big, too much work, too few a dream. Let the sky thus, take its place. Perform a reading act with your eyes shut, back firmly against the soil and the grass. Feel the blue and grey-white become black – then multicolour of kid’s pencils. Make the gold become yellow, never to be reversed. Noise the lies of socialism of the rich, of the revolution of the idle, of anarchism of the bookkeepers. Book the losers. Beer the beards. Smoke the young ones. Change your spears. Shake the dust from brown shoes.
One says: can smoke here all you want, we got skies!
Two says: are you interested in my work – my new tools, are they damn!
Three says: some beer for my teacup, mind you won’t, common, man!
The one without a number, for there’s always one without a number, belly up, laughing, getting kicked – contrary to the wisdom of people, contrary to the shore of the ocean, closer into the desert, deeper into the sun.
Still reading. Deciphering the black, so it means nothing. A writer sitting on a coffee table in San Francisco, lost between two continents, drinking Budweiser, marking files with an X. The gold sanddust, covering the rest of California. A dream cover, she performing, uncovering the dreams. The night waiting, long walk acoming. Better grab your bag – sleep your death in it. Golden tequila for a dreamer, 12 years of whisky for a worker in you.
January 7th, 2015
If you ever catch yourself trying to put the endlessly proliferating ideas, visions, futures into words, you know the overwhelming feeling of being thrust into the middle of things you are too slow to grab, grasp, get hold of. Things you come to know to be faster than writing. You come to know something that is called chaos or multiplicity of worlds.
Worlds, in which infinite number of yous try to understand infinite ways of ever abounding other infinities, which might differ only by the length of one nail.
There are infinite worlds alike, different and same. Once you know this, all writing seems like always too late. In all actual worlds.
You feel remorse of all yous feeling it for you.
Indefinite multiplicity of slight differences, always here and everywhere, now and ever. Unframed by past and future. Me going out of myself to give birth to many more. Infinity of Ones, one after one, by sheer power of being seperate, thus already minusculely different. Ones that don’t add up. That share no other genuine property, except for being one in the different. The world in which another Borges does not commit an error of ornithological proof of God’s existence. In which Borges is a pigeon – or he thinks he is – in such way thinking of yet another world.
One can keep calm, for it’s all meaningless, one can assume the personality of the sane madman thinking nothing, one can elaborate the infinite ways and times he celebrates.
One can write, paint, play, always and never too late, for each instance is resumed and restarted whenever new worlds are born in the space and time without measure or signature.
I have my nails cut and long at the same time in different places, I know of this in all of them. I also have my nails long and cut in the same place at different times, being, thus, at least in two places at once and older than myself at the moment of my birth.
Art makes no sense of meaning. It’s its work. It makes sense of rendering things meaningless. It makes senselessness mean. It doubles each and every meaning the world has gave birth to, rendering it free, making it mean nothing and contail all of the sense.
It doubles all sense, rendering it full, making it sense nothing, feel the meaning of nothing.
Infinity of Ones’ Ghosts, Infinity of Ghosts of Infinity of Ones. Each and every differing from all others in the same rhythm of and between being born and forgotten.
Ad absurdum ad infinitum.
I am not and at times in and between these worlds.
Fornever, noeverywhere. In my dreamy melancholy.
December 11th, 2014
Unfinished essay, the beautiful jump of a frightened deer, the wind, counting the windows, always leaving a widow, windowless glass on a balcony, rain rain rain, my dear, I noodle, seemlessly the seamen in the storm, without tobacco, not backing off, Tobakoff, wishing I had noised my opinion better, but who can think of(f) a great prose in a half-bent pose?
Piece of not so great a prose, written in a half-bent pose
Tobakoff has built a canoe. Some 40 years ago, while the thought of brewing his own beer has not yet descended low enough to reach his levels. It would be a folly to think that Tobakoff could have ascended instead, he was no angel, not yet a spirit, and, while some described him as having a ghostlike ability to not exist, he was here, in this world, in some sort of a body – that much he knew.
Add to that, his expertise in matters of sinking. From age 6 when first sinking occured, to age 46 when he predicted, albeit in a very silent voice, the sinking of world economy.
His pupils, for Tobakoff had an important mission to teach young boys one or another craft – mostly ship building, called him Reny.
While of a tediously precise mode of operating with and on various things, Tobakoff had clumsiness in understanding the difference between deer and dear, which often put him in a not so forgiving position of treating people as animals and animals as people. Nonetheless, as wide range of records state, he was no extremist and indulged in things with Aristotelian moderation. At times, in almost exact manner of the Great Greek – riding on his whores between five story student appartament houses, for he could not imagine himself being in a position of an animal, due to great admiration he had for domestic, as well as wild, beasts, and less so for human ones.
Tobakoff found things that looked like him repulsive, thus, naturally, he had few men friends. This fact led some to believe that Tobakoff had either homophobic or homoerotic tendencies, which, of course, was entirely untrue, as the boys of his craft class knew very well.
The canoe that Tobakoff has built himself some 40 years ago was never used and remained a virgin trapped in a big three floor storage outhouse. She was no beauty, but had a trait characteristic of those, who never have left their master – faithfulness and a deep-seated desire for adventure. Made from fir plywood and accordingly named Christina, she spent the days dreaming of the time her master – if not release – then at least please her by taking her out to open waters, of which there was plenty around. After graduating in astronomy, Tobakoff decided to take more grounded path and moved to the mountainous seaside at the edge of the country. As Tobakoff was fond of reminding his guests – the land where the stars are closer than bars, having said that he would pour himself and those around a significant amount of vodka into tin mugs, for he was a travelled man of earthly taste.
Even though he loved company, Tobakoff valued his alone time – thus after few vodka mugs, would retreat into the back parts of his large house to read the classics. Curiously, the records remain silent on the matter of Tobakoff’s choices. Nevertheless, it’s safe to deduce that Tobakoff would eagerly subscribe to the saying, that vodka and books are the best man’s friends. As for women, besides loving to ride them during his youthful days, Tobakoff led as chaste a life as a bachelor in his late fifties can. While confusing deer and dear, he had no such difficulty with beer and bear, though the thought of creating a bear beer brand was not a stranger in his, now devout beerster’s, head. It should be noted, to avoid misunderstandings, that while vodka was his friend, beer was Tobakoff’s lifeline, obviously, after the friend has (which it always does) abandoned him. Though never on a cloud nine, dispirited at these moments Tobakoff would mix malted barley with herbs he picked on the walks – the attraction he loved: another thing he shared with the Great Greek. Inhaling the scents of each leaf with such devotion as is only seen in romantic movies, performed by beautiful women, who, by all appearances, have never smelled a rose before. And alive, then, would Tobakoff come again! Clap his hands, smile, almost laugh – hell, why not! – laugh like there’s no tomorrow, which, on closer inspection, is quite literally true for all cases of today. And – why not once more – cry at the same time, for the same reason, cause there’s no tomorrow!
If there happened to be some people around (people have this strange ability to be around, at least on this earth), Tobakoff’s outburst of joyous despair would induce fear and not literal confusion in their hearts and minds. The herb devil, some would say. Other would try to smack him back into his senses, leaving Tobakoff senseless. The moments of great truth, alas, are not meant to be experienced orgiastically.
Tobakoff loved water so much, that he never learned swimming – as with all great loves the most obvious way of fulfilling it is usually left, for one reason or another, uncourted. He would sit on the rocks, watching young boys and girls dive into the depths of his beloved one, while not jealous, yet still melancholically not at ease. Remembering or, rather, reconstructing visions at these times, of himself, a young boy aged six, sinking deeper and deeper, surrounded by soft and cool blueness of the river, and then, suddenly, lying on his back, looking at the gay sky, which for some reason becomes dark and starry. In it he reads his fate, and being like his canoe, faithful and just a little bit stubborn, decides to follow its laid path. Or so Tobakoff imagined himself and his life starting there and then, for every life must start sometime and somewhere.
A person of liquids, Tobakoff had a dry sense of humour. When pushed to its extremes, one could make an observation that it was a desert sense of humour. Tobakoff’s once best friend Platonoff had a chance to be at the receiving end of it on numerous occasions. Though asked about it, Platonoff declined to comment, lowering his head so close to his knees, that one might have thought the man was having a heart attack.Or it simply might have just been the size of his head. Perplexing are reasons of why the men lower their heads so close to the knees.
The reader will have to forgive me for not being able to describe, or find anyone capable of it, the sense of a desert sense of humour, which was the one Tobakoff had, probably in spades.
What I can describe, though, is Tobakoff’s appetite for sweets. Sugar, candy, strawberry, maple leaf syrup, vanila sauce, zephyr, chocolate sticks, ice cream – all mixed in banana puree. Tobakoff ate his dinner as all the wasps died from envy. The only sweet thing in the world that Tobakoff knew of and couldn’t enjoy was honey.
Honey made him sick, not in a stomach or mouth, but in his heart. And even though it was a sweet kind of sickness, it made him think of bees and, consequently, of beehives, and, in sequence, of country side, and, as is frequent in honey sick thoughts, of little children lost in woods.
When tired of life (for there’s not much else to be tired of), Tobakoff would play what he called relaxing death games – the archetypal process of it consisted in making up problems that allowed for – and required – only one solution, only one move. His favourite, what Tobakoff indulged in over and over, and – if exceptionally fatigued – for excessive amounts of time, was throwing a piece of sugar into the sea – it gave him huge relief, for in it Tobakoff saw a unification of opposites, albeit false, and a metamorphic change of one form of matter into another, which is nothing else if not death, but since not total, it was an extremely relaxing experience.
One particular game Tobakoff didn’t enjoy much, but still played – for the immanent truth of something being a game is that it can, and thus must, be played. He called it „The fly vacuum“ – Tobakoff would sit, stand or lie in relaxed patience, waiting for a fly to come near his mouth and then suck it in. The game required to catch the insect without moving anything, but one’s lips.
Neither the fly, nor Tobakoff knew the meaning of this game, but it is safe to posit, that both were surprisingly amused by the happening. No one died during it, as the rules of the game did not state which of the participants should play dead. And so, being the lover of animals as he was, Tobakoff assumed the pretension of being dead.
As is with many men, Tobakof was once so dissatisfied with his name, that he decided to move his vowels, and since then preffered to be called Tabokoff – it gave the name a hint of fresh space, and – not in the least less importantly – him a sense of being closer to his roots.
How close? The records are not clear on the matter – while his name and some habits surely resembled those of a russian, the archival footage of his grandparents show them, exclusively, in either Lithuania or England. The origin of the name, thus, might be entirely accidental and, to put it lightly, the result of a dark sense of humour that his parents inherited from theirs, and dissinherited, with some mutations, onto their son.
However that might turn out, Tabokoff was a much more confident man since. So much more, that his co-workers had to invent a saying to capture the essence of this change: „Once an ass, always an asshole“. Of course, said in a proper manner of these things behind, let’s be honest, Tabokoff’s beautiful arse.
In his beliefs Tabokoff was quite an ordinary fellow – in fear, which happened to be the case more and more frequently, due to Tabokoff’s growing insomnia, he would call for God, in joy – which was also the case more and more frequent, due to his decreasing fear of insomnia, Tabokoff would fall into blissful oblivion and worship all the false idols – from the softness of his bed to singing seagulls and malted barley. And while it is true that ways of God are mysterious, it is no less true that the ways to God are as well.
With more than a half of a pint, but less than a barrel of beer, a jar of strawberry jam, a mug of vodka and a tome of unspecified classic, Tabokoff, in his holiday sportswear and capless hat, decides to take Christina to the fjords, to teach the bitch some knowledge, for he feels confident. In addition bringing two boys from his class to test the future shipbuilders in oral mock exam and lay out on a table practical benefits of being able to build a ship, even if it is nothing like Titanic.
Four of them descend slowly onto the waters and proceed downwards into the sea.
One of the boys, Friedrich, with his shy moustache basking in sunlight, sits in the end of Christina, or, which is not the case unless we see Christina as a woman, which is now true – depending on how she swims – between either her buttocks or, for a lack of more appropriate expression, in her cunt.
Eating sunflower seeds and spitting them onto the ripples of small waves he observes rather curiously. He has no idea what Reny is up to, but the boy trusts his teacher. He is, after all, still a good boy.
The other, though his parents named him Bjorn, reffered to as Karl, sits in front, or, using the same two and a half analogies, leans on a face or among the black hair of Christina. Singing craftman’s songs and joyously engaging seagulls in a feeding game.
Tabokoff himself, as expected, sits in a belly of Christina, whichever way you look at it. Anxious to test his earnest pupils, but also happy as he never was have had taken Christina for a ride. Well, for a swim. Or fly, if you look at the foursome from a bird’s point of view and so establish a situation, that is called „heaven on earth“.
– So, boys, how do you enjoy your day?
Says Tabokoff, happy.
– Let’s get to the point.
Replies Karl, while Friedrich still has no idea what Reny is up to.
– Alright, alright now, no point to hurry. Friedrich, now tell me, what is the definition of a ship?
Tabokoff goes straight to heavy artilery, cunning as he was lately.
Friedrich chokes for a second on a sunflower seed, surprised by hasteness of the situation and having heard a question he has spent evenings pondering on – with ambiguous results.
– Ship is a structure embodied in organised planks.
Bjorn bursts laughing.
– Fuck you, Karl!
Shouts Friedrich angry and knees deep into the buttocks.
Tabokoff, as a lone authority on the matter of ethics, slaps Bjorn on a face with the left paddle.
– Good, Friedrich!
He says, even though deep in his heart he knows that the boy somewhat missed the mark. Tabokoff swallows his bittersweet feeling to teach bjorn a lesson and to give some, given his position in a canoe, needed space for Friedrich.
– Now, Karl, tell me, what is the main part of a well built ship?
Bjorn, rubbing his right cheek, song have deserted his soul, which he, unlike Tabokoff, surely possesses, looks at Reny, straight at Tobakoff’s red eyes.
– What have you sad?
Tabokoff asks, as though completely unphased and have had expected this answer.
Repeats Bjorn confidently and courageously. Friedrich at the moment inspecting the waves, lifts his head and starts voicelessly uttering what he thinks is the right answer.
Now, the reader must have in mind that Tabokoff can’t see both boys simultaneously – he has to change positions, when addressing each boy – so he jumps back and forth, for he must keep a good eye on his pupils, least one of them falls off the boat.
Bjorn looks at Friedrich, and Tabokoff, sensing the conspiracy, jumps arround just on time to catch the last silent words rolling off boy’s lips. Instantly he grabs the right paddle and slaps Friedrich on the cheek.
All becomes calm, both boys rubbing their respective faces, Tabokoff looking for a bottle of beer.
– Boys, treat yourself with some strawberry jam.
He says, the peace of his mind have had returned back.
– I’m sorry, Reny, but I have not prepared for this exam.
Manly, as he is, Bjorn puts his cards on the table.
– It doesn’t matter, Karl, it doesn’t really matter.
Tabokoff, seemingly have had lost interest in performing oral examination, has a sip of vodka and retreats into the back of his imaginary house to read the unspecified classic.
Time flies as the birds gaze on the passing boat.
Friedrich, now comfortably in a cunt, watches the waves continuing on eating sunflower seeds, while Bjorn resumes singing and playing with seagulls.
– What, Frie?
– Did it ever occur to you that Reny has really never taught us how to assemble a boat, let alone a ship?
Tabokoff, still in the back of his imaginary house, starts to read with increased interest.
– Friedrich, I knew it all along, that he was preaching us a pile of bullshit. What with all quotes, ancient classics and constantly, how to put it mildlym, under the weather.
– So why did you atend classes?
– For the same reason as you did.
– I hoped to learn the art of ship building.
– But if you knew, you could have changed the course midway through?
– You know, Friedrich, the essence of learning is to learn from your mistakes.
– So you must commit yourself to one and not shuffle never failing properly.
– How old are you, Karl?!
Says Friedrich in a friendly pat on a shoulder way.
During the boys’ brotherly communion, Tabokoff manages to finish a chapter of unknown classic, but that doesn’t mean that the teacher escapes the wrath of sleep. As he snores, Bjorn notices that Tabokoff’s open book is getting wet. He notifies Friedrich of the fact and the boys start shaking Tabokoff, who is mumbling something about deers and killing, slowly coming back to his daytime senses, while the sun continues its downward path.
– What is it, Bjorn?
Catching Bjorn’s furious look, he corrects himself.
– What is it, Karl?
– Your stupid boat is wet!
– What do you mean – wet? We are in the water!
Tabokoff has yet to switch to a clear thinking mode.
– No! It’s wet inside! Look!
Bjorn grabs the book and shakes it in the face of Tabokoff, whose confusion of dears and deers is still not overcome.
During this little skirmish, Friedrich continues eating sunflower seeds, albeit in a vastly larger quantities.
Suddenly, as if woken up from deep sleep, which, incidently, is induced in insomniacs of a certain type by beer, vodka and unspecified classics, Tabokoff grabs Bjorn and throws him off the boat. In a matter of partitioned second, he does the same with Friedrich. Christina lets out a sigh of relief, but Tabokoff is too frightened to take notice, for he is already paddling as if his life depended on it, paddling from the future into the past. The boys are way behind, and if the records are on track, they survive to see another day, hopefully, one less swimmy.
And so Tabokoff keeps on for incredible amount of time, so long as to stop right at the view of the setting sun and – having jumped arround – coming storm. Tabokoff breathes heavily, his head aching and heart performing rhythms he once heard on a city bus. Never the one to back off, he does what most ordinary men would do in his situation – he wishes for a God.
And God it is.
– Tobakoff, for I won’t call you by your self-ascribed name, you must do what you do best, you must sink to live. So, sink, Tobakoff, sink! Don’t you ever think of swimming!
Tobakoff, caught in a moment of doubt, though not about God, or what it said, but about his name, hops overboard and piously starts sinking.
He sees the wind that shakes the barley, the deers, the dears, the wall-street tableux, in short, all his life coming at him, and, if not for the water, one could see tears rushing down his cheeks. Tobakoff relaxes his muscles and let’s it all take him.
Now, at this point the story of Tobakoff takes an ambiguous turn.
According to one source, it is stated that Tobakoff drowned, for the fishermen found, quote: „a terribly constructed seamenless boat on a shore“, adding, and this I include for poetic purposes: „ with the most strangest kind of smell, that made us giggly“.
The second one, less reliable, but nothing is (reliable) in matters of history, told that Tabokoff for some reason decided to defy God and started swimming (whether on his back or doggy style) and reached the shores, though it is not specified whether alive or dead. However, in my ahistorical opinion, for all we know, he might just have learned doing it dolphin way and is roaming the ocean in his quasi-rooted solitude, following the star, whose name he doesn’t know.
It does not mention the fate of Christina, thus, most likely, she still floats the open waters.
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