fuk n doo doo lit

were wondering doo how doo doo think of doo as a novel when it clearly is just a jumbled mess

fuk the novel - being the ascendant remnant form of literature in the age of postmoney money, the sport of the mfa, a last desperate false clinging to reality before all finally fall into the pit of abstraction and virtuality - is analogous to prime catholicism 

its all about the confessional

no fuk its all about accepting all forms in its big art tent, doos made this point innumerably in its novel series a few years ago, obviously instead of reading doo youre as usual dressing up your genitalia in pipe cleaners and googly eyes, then you have the audacity to speak of hope

i said dope

no one rational identifies the novelist and her characters and then accuses the former based on the latters actions or ethics, so you dont assume billy was duplicitous and malefic like iago or that vlad vlad was a pedophile like humb humb, so doos not lampchops or elspet fuk or kali que or any of the others or even doo, doos a character named the same as the absent author primarily to confuse doo - whether the fictional or real one were unsure - about identity and naming

if its a novel its not a very good one, skid marks and broken glass, id say youve come off the rails except youve never been on them

the art world, its curators and critics, desperados and ladder monkeys, workshop devotees and festival paparazzi, the normals and normalized and normalizing, have always attempted to shackle spirit to the pillory in the public square of definition but spirit being flatulence and vision shrugs smirkingly away and blows where and how it will and fuck fuk the professional literati bureaucrats

your rancid gas changes nothing in the hard wild labour up the mountain of names

you say o i give this despicable character the name bruce robertson and i place it in a novel that while experimental to some extent is more or less recognizable as a novel according to what the various people required to define novel say and as the novel, the prop of fiction, permits me to say anything i want, distanced by simulation and excused to the extent certain stages of the day or another day say its form is worthy, i can, through the interiority of consciousness and the minimal exteriority of language, live in freedom and beyond good and evil, but if this distance or pretense collapses, that is if i move beyond interiority and the fiction of language into the presumed arenas of truth or the dimensional arena of social physicality or i effectively equate the language with the identity of my consciousness and so dissipate the fiction and now am assumed to speak what i am then i can not simply be critiqued as a bad or crazy writer but reviled as an obnoxious human being and in some cases incarcerated or killed, what doo does or attempts to doo is enter a jumbling space of genre and dissimulation, of authorial confusion and the abyss of identity, collapsing maps between interiority and exteriority, madness and reason, usefulness and uselessness, product and process, of disregard for definitional art and name solidity, of questions of unity success form character plot reason content narration exteriority, to play in the primordial sandbox without judgment or conformity to conventional structures and values, this is what doo the novel is, a kind of isnting

sorry what did you say i was on snapchat

never mind, do you have any onion rings

just sounds like a cowardly excuse for a lack of talent and discipline

sorry what did you say i was on napdoo

never mind, ill throw some in the oven

assimilate!

stoodio doo toodays buzzing with bots from geylang whove clatteringly descended the 283 metres to join us in mocking doos futility

doo this protest from the sidelines, this ineffectual throwing literary pebbles from a relatively privileged playground into the busy struggling arenas of the world, it may have been necessary or transgressive a few decades ago but no one cares anymore, no ones shocked, no ones impressed, no ones going to listen to or change because of these antics which are frankly post postindustrial and increasingly puerile

as usual you miss the point or rather points fuk or more to points you miss the spheres hyperspheres and pataspheres, stuck on a freeway in rush hour when nothings moving

and yoo as usual doo just want to play sophistic games with absurd metaphors in the safety of your meaningless retreat, but the only route left is through engagement, however difficult

youre of the kind who preach diversity but cant practice it, you demand that not only everyone engage but that they engage in particular ways and these particular ways just happen to be a reification of yet another assumption of one culture which truly hasnt proven itself to be all that worthy of anything important other than shouting and destruction

dissonance is cliche

dissonance is cliche is cliche

staying in the realm of mere literature is cowardly

many fear bobbing in the sea of literature

youre the eternal voice of irrelevance

youre the eternal voice of conformity

the external world, that which is outside yourself, that which comes into being through the struggle of specimens working together and against - a life avoiding this is just another critic pointing out how the strong stumble, credit belongs to those actually in the arena not those cold and timid souls who are afraid of both victory and defeat

literatures the most agreeable way of ignoring society which is a carousel of selfaggrandizing fools

there must be a third way

but also a fourth and ninth and twentyfifth, if literature, if art - if that which is the wellspring of these things we prefer not to name - isnt protest there is no protest, theres no evidence your marches and demonstrations, your boardroom and media struggles are effectual, show me the etiologies of change and ... not only are we of the tribe that dont have capacity for assimilation, this tribe will always present itself but in varied manifestations - some incarcerated, some institutionalized, some drugged, some creating, some mute, some silenced - your socalled heroes are terrified of art - and thereby commoditize it to remove the terror - and so capitalism as the vulgar consummation of history demonstrates its disastrous hostility toward the ecologies of nature and art

but whats the alternative doo all other forms of governance would in your terms be equally disastrous

you object to varied essential forms of spirit fuk and demand that we cross over to your forms but we dont ask that you cross over to ours, we dont even know what ours are, we spout the voids and call them voids, you spout the voids and call them family virtue power money courage worth greatness, all the millennia old cliches, you say assimilate but the absorbed extremity is no longer an extremity and as the outlier enters the dubious commons the outlier dies and so along with it doubt and the forest and night, as the whonym world usurps the planet so the entrenched whonym says the usurpation is all there is, you can accuse us of being a dying breed, luddites of the spirit, uselessnesses of society, but the useless have always been with us and why if that is our family should we not give it voice and give it voice according to the ways uselessness meanders, literature has always asked what are we, what is it, whytofore and whenceasmuch, and what are we doing mucking around in this airy nothingness of words - these roundabouts of nothingness are arts effective most thorough contribution to culture ...but to ask that each of us also be a politician an entrepreneur investor a warrior negotiator an influencer ... is to ask that the very eye of art go blind, you want us all to have a recognized job description in the factory of society, but wanderers hobos mumblers losers renegades miscreants - those who lock themselves in bedrooms and slip strange notes under the door - those who cant or wont or dont - those of nots and knots - your program of assimilation is a call for increased alienation and disaster in a world already brimming with these consequences of strategic imbecility, the names change across cultures and centuries as they will - desert fathers and mothers anchorites hermits daoists mystics poets - now possibly the mentally ill the abject certain abdicators a kind of artist who decries the name - this is what we like dooing, doo is what we doo, doo is what eye are, we feel nauseous claustrophobic revolted unhealthy diseased attempting to fit into the assimilated kingdoms, the clubs of media, your accusations are rather projections of your own puerility and cowardice

fuk slaps doo and they wrestle to the floor and the bots jump in, technologys flying everywhere and there is dust and blood and sweat and everythings patched to the wounds of everything and stoodio doos a mess

ah this is engagement someone says