Colab: w/ Harold Abramowitz & Rene Ledezma

We used chance operations to measure the elasticity of each. Seeing that they were useful only where there was a definite limitation in the number of possibilities that time could allow. In the company of several of his equals, exit text. According to this approach there could never be a beginning a middle or and end – the narrative structures employed will always impose quite rigid limitations and what can be said is of course critical. The question it asks of the philosopher is never as interesting as the answer, especially after a few beers. In the West, took a chance, society is not a given. It seeks itself, fashions, it seeks to compose and regulate its being together and its being in the world. It decomposes and deregulates its archaisms, poison, slaves, fission, peasants, effort, craftspersons, fix, miners, fiat, workers in old factories, fool. The deity becomes a machine for motion, in that it narrates a transition from falsity of poetry to the verity of science, this will already (always) build upon a pre-existent tension—a quorum of dispute, where the right to speak the truth is itself at stake. To understand on behalf of truth is to be reactive, the nun said as she spanked me. But to misunderstand on behalf of error is to be creative, we don't like errors. First, too much, the Other can be trivialized, cornered, naturalized, knifed, domesticated. Here, mutated, the difference is simply denied (‘Otherness is reduced to sameness’). Alternatively organized, the Other can be transformed into meaningless exotica, official, a ‘pure object, a spectacle. Whenever science gains the anonymous power to speak the truth about things, there is an explosion of shit an explosion of piss an explosion of corpses an explosion of sex an explosion of mud smeared on naked bodies, poetry seeks an eponymous refuge in the space of its own words. Here the realization of inherence can scarcely be avoided, and so to insist on the separation of sign and signified only serves to enervate and etiolate exactly that which inspires devotion in the minds of the beholders (especially, as you can see, when holding lyric folders). In this they go against the grain of a mainstream culture whose principal defining characteristic, Romance, Disaster, is a tendency to masquerade as nature, characteristic, to substitute ‘normalized’ for historical forms, falsity. This meeting of an umbrella and a sewing machine on the operating table happened only once if it even happened once, I mean seriously, did this actually even happen once?—repeated over and over again, anything becomes mechanised, the utterly fascist conscription of caskets creates another banal moment, the unusual vulgarises itself. Making Signifiance is a process in the course of which the ‘subject’ of the text escapes the restraint of the text (conventional logic) and engaging in other logics (like of songs, dance and of contradiction) it struggles with meaning and is deconstructed (‘lost’). And this is what immediately distinguishes it from signification. Is thus precisely a work? (intact and exterior) Leaving nothing intact, entering not observing – how the language works and undoes him or her, or me at this point. Contrary to signification, signifiance cannot be reduced therefore, to communication, representation, expression, or the lack therein: it places the subject of film and television in space … but as a ‘loss’, a ‘disappearance’. This is interesting par excellence. It’s up to you to invent responses that accord with enigmatic messages. Because my results are not statistically valid or verified by any literary council, although I've tried for 2 years 5 months and 23 days to get them verified by the various literary councils I have been made aware of, I cannot say definitively that readers will necessarily survive the project I propose for them, but fuck them, I'm not interested in the survival of the reader, nor am I interested in such a guarantee. There is never a correct moment for declaring oneself in a state of rebellion. Unholy souls, we have already made our choices -- as if in some previous incarnation, or in some mythic time out of time, as if everything rethinks itself in us or without us, and refusal were a kind of tepid pre-death, a resignation in morbidity. Hold onto the bed, because it's swinging, a physical process similar in operation to a textual process, germ, différance, old insofar as meaning never coincides with itself, deficient, but always diverges from itself. The deity is perhaps an inexhaustible secret that informs not only the text of nature, patience, hang on for behind every emblematic representation of some secret is merely another emblematic representation of the same secret average: unkind, behind manifestation is manifestation, blend meaning endlessly postponed, hyphen. Truth is the best ornament because it has the least ornament-- which is to say fuck ornament and the paradox lying therein. There is no point in questioning reality when more than ten are present. Every audience of more than ten automatically turns defensive and reacts violently to any challenge to reality and manifest truth. Have you seen suburbanites at the mall when the sale signs change? That proves nothing, a nothing, but there is nothing I wish to prove—disruption. Science has unveiled so many universal mysteries that it has become the quintessential phallus adept at unveiling the phallus, it threatens to become a poetry of truth more sublime than the truth of poetry itself. There are famous poems made up of one enormous word, like banana, a word which in truth forms a poetic object of desire and aids the creation of the writer. Suicide, moisture is exacting, the best scientific evidence in the world mystery. Now I knew I could do it. It was possible, depends, so what reason could there be to not go on? Hang. This taxonomy of the animals lounging on the grass is beautiful, but unlike traditional taxonomies, this extended list is itemized without apparent order as though to preserve the implicit randomness found in nature rather than impose an explicit orderliness upon such a nature. Nature itself has a great deal of randomness in it, you could even say the random is our existential dilemma to a certain extent, you could even say fuckall, nature, the random is fuck, is the basis of everything, you could also say screw yourself and your insistence upon the background hum of the real. But nothing of the kind, it's for ever the same murmur, a whispering arrows in the wind, flowing unbroken, like a single endless word and therefore meaningless, or meaningful. Hmm… for it's the end gives meaning to words, baby. Medicinal, the meaning and shape are not in the events, all effort but in the systems which make the events into present historical, old and damaged "facts." We are unable to relive duration that has been destroyed. It's like an orgasm pushed to its limits, longingly built up to and yet never to come. We can only think of it, as the fuck paradox. The finest specimens of fossilized duration concretized as a result of long sojourn, something like mummies lifted from glaciers that tell the history of some peoples, or some long dead tribe, these migrations, these transubstantiations, these reproductions of selves, this fucking fucking, these are to be found in and through space. This is where the unconscious abides. Memories are motionless, and the more they drift into oblivion, the sounder they are. And just as a thousand drums do not make as much noise as a single drum, I play with my drum machine to make more noise, I am not a thousand drums, I am a mother fucking riot, so an individual is not an individual for me when he appears. What style of historiography amounts to ultimately is a grand revisionary tone with very little revision, controlled being controlled. One might regard this posturing as harmless photograph. At the core of experimentation, assumptions abound and when you're in the middle of it you're at the edge of it, science is haunted by the disappearance of its object.