to be added this week to a kind of record each week added to: part VI

VI.

I am as I age wrestling with the idea of affirmation

a long death scene follows which I do not make up

when I return turn when I return the idea of a room

come on now they have his hands come on now rubber

fingers in mouth in arsehole inside a rummage sale of

public private interests like you when I return the idea

it’s not the first time you are dying and you have never

been disabled in my sight you have been old before you

before you have been a woman and you and have been

the child of a woman come on now like you I return turn

to at no instant where hesitation has a chance of being

being thrown by the who said the dark lady who said I

I have heard borne witness to grown men screaming

when

undergoing this procedure I climb in and out of bed

like you new angel angel new I cannot turn my eyes

away each thing returns at every instant I like you

heap up before myself

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anciency
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for a kind of record, parts IV & V

IV.

I am very happy

you could hear the risk in his voice

he rubs his penis across her waist

the danger

 

what did you say to me

did you say

too much

too much of looking over the precipice

too much of walking around and around

in these dark rooms where I live out empty days

Cavafy

 

and the stripper

with her hair glossy running

down around her breast

curling into the hollow

of his loin

in a bituminous river

 

approach

retreat

take hold of yourself

and girded against the unexpected

smell

get a good grip

 

the small of her back

wipe your finger

pull the latch

open the window

a light breeze

with the tang

of revelation

 

V.

but I was just angry

every night

No not every night

every night and always

every night

 

what happened last week

anyway

every night

I can smell dogshit

 

my body boils

is the pit

in miniature

a model of hell

no light escapes

and the light in the cave is not reassuring

although it dances has the highpitch whine

of a blade of a wire a single strand spitting

in a vacuum

no relief just the superimposition of totem

animals one over another over another over

another incessant pull gravity and

the vanity of man

 

who should commit suicide tomorrow or tonight

who should give himself up to the pull of the Platonic

the shadow does not me

shadow does not

not me

 

what expression escapes

mortal danger

or should I say personal

but vanity should emote

 

I should kill myself tomorrow or tonight

I should take my life

...
anciency
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for a kind of record, III

III.

Is it time

a sheering

a shelf

the world

borne up

by what

Is it so much

 

Is it time

by the capillary action

of years of photographs

of looks

of looks lost on one another

Is it so much

 

I had no idea

daylight would be

like this

I had no idea

of love

in the daylight

 

Your eyes are blue

volcanic lakes

 

without depth

without heat

 

simply welling up

so much time

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on a kind of record, II

II.

she said

I’m going to talk to you quite openly

and she

apologised for her vulgarity

 

is there a way onward

Juana

by Gamboa

the western cordillero

 

a patch of vomit

made up of the lights

of Bogotá

 

cupped in the hands

of a thousand digits

 

figures of bone

walk the western

horizon

 

still recognisable

moving without acknowledgement

you are watching

 

relations of yours

I ask

 

you trap me in fucking

you trap me

we shut up

we know

 

the identity

we need to show

indifference to

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Since remarkably little has changed in the intervening 17 years in respect of arts and cultural policy in NZ, I have forwarded the letter linked to below to our current Prime Minister & Minister for the Arts, Rt. Hon. Jacinda Ardern

Letter to the Prime Minister of New Zealand

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notes on to a kind of record I.

this in common

poem is problem

and this

 

very important

a sort of program

 

gathering of words

conjunctives

as substantives

of types

of syntactical moments

of verbal tonalities

 

the alternate face

here widened

 

towards the obscure

scintillating

 

with certainty of a

phenomenon

 

not a thought but

process of thought

mirror-like

 

refraction

of the human

 

end

in itself

end

of itself

 

end

germ

 

of an infinity

of horrors

 

reserves in one’s thoughts

hidden intention

charlatanism

addressing an audience

addressing a public

 

whom shall I kill

 

synthesis of all the vertigoes

dictation of memoirs

 

history of mind

absurd by what it seeks

 

great by what it finds

every beginning

 

coincidence

I don’t know what

 

sort of contact between all

and nothing

 

three words

two words

 

the tomb of the poet Edward

this girl couldn’t be buried

buried on a moonlit night

 

the dead girl’s name

Narcissa

who found himself so

in his reflection

 

the cyclical and repetitive functions of life

take love where it has never been

to the end

of the will to

 

killed his puppet

his puppet killed

in favor of a poetry

 

claiming autonomy

through critical self-reference

 

claims

to repressing the developments of intelligence

to depreciating the value of pure research

to taking often atrocious measures against

who consecrated themselves to these things

 

to favoring

even as far as endowed chairs and laboratories

 

worshippers of the idol

to the detriment

independent creators

spiritual richness

 

and they have imposed on the arts

on the sciences

the utilitarian ends which a power

 

founded on declamations and terror

pursues

 

praise of Bergson

 

sameness within vast

elusive differences

 

[all of which, on the poet Paul Valéry

1871-1945, you can read here.]

(&&&[Deleuze])=-1...
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to a kind of record

I.

we all looked and could see nothing

what are we supposed to see

what are we supposed to see

the inexhaustible

the inexhaustible

horizon

 

torn from our hands

Valéry said

I cannot repeat

don’t be so dramatic

the sun fell

in time

the sun fell

 

we spoke of things

one spoke

in the dark

outside

another answered

Valéry

you have to answer for

you have to answer for

him

 

do you have the answer

hidden

in a fold of skin

hidden

between your lips

hiding

behind

the everyday

 

around him

grew the desert

the desert grew

and every day

there

there you are

knots in his fingers

his whole rag head

rag and jag

Buster was not his name

Buster she said

was not his name

 

she whispers

come here

wraps you

wraps you

in grease proof paper

and she wraps you

there you are

well at dawn

there you lie

tied up with a string

a prayer

you cannot answer for

...
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a curtain not to be lifted – & other minuses – …towards a logic of sensation adequate to an analysis of performance

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“Everyone is delighted that Dr Johnson’s writers’ prayer is the one that will be used as an epitaph for the print age.”

O God, who hast hitherto supported me, enable me to proceed in this labour, and in the whole task of my present state; that when I shall render up at the last day an account of the talent committed to me, I may receive pardon by the grace of God. Amen.

— in Enrique Vila-Matas’s Dublinesque, Trans. Harvey, R. & McLean, A., Vintage Books, 2013, pp. 232-233

“No one, except Riba, can understand what is going on when Walter then suddenly starts weeping inconsolably. In theory, he’s not a writer and so this problem linked to literary talent and work shouldn’t affect him. But the thing is, even if he were, it wouldn’t really be very logical for him to start weeping like this. After all, no writer has ever been overwhelmed by a single tear. But Riba knows that’s precisely where the clue to solving this enigma lies. Writers don’t cry for themselves or for other writers. Only someone like Walter who sees everything from the outside and who has a special intelligence and sensitivity can understand how much one should cry whenever one sees a writer.”

— Ibid., pp. 233-234

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what is the blockchain? (or the death of the other, any other; and the death of ethics)

With the advent of the blockchain, we will not need to trust each other in the traditional sense, because trust is built into the system itself. … and the system is bigger than both of us.

enter the new episteme

(on loading this image, I saved it inadvertently to the Deligny file … the grapher of autistic networks)

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