writing literature without a whonym centre

 

art waits for shapes to appear and as they do the agent of art turns themself into a pitcher pouring content into the shapes where does the content come from the pitcher where does the pitcher come from the shapes conjoining with the meat of the agent where do the shapes come from no one knows but the one of the totality of all things while not knowing according to our knowing of knowledge seems to hold within it energies that release shapes from their radicated minds and we many ones without knowing can receive and so through receptivity participate however distantly in knowing and art which is the manifold eternal varying uncopyrighted record of the appearing shapes

 

i abdicate my social whonym responsibilities for episodes of denoted kenosis in which i fracture spiritually and in these fissures of confusion and disparity spaces open not of us not of anything we easily know and i or whats left of i or rather the abundant absences of i fill these spaces and here centres everywhere and in them spaces of uncanny canny absence

 

the primary challenge of literature now in expanding voids of langwich in bifurcating tribal frenzies in ashen interrogations of art in apocalypses of media in concrete tradition in pecuniary straitwaistcoats is the locus of the whonym as langwich goes out of itself in poetry in narrative in tract and discourse exposition in romance epic comedy drama horror satire

 

yet we see everywhere still the whonym at the centre of literature as if this is how the universe is constructed as if whonym centrality reflects reality and is its source and voice and most surely in the very genre called realism the whonym dances flops pummels weeps at centre stage at centres centre in clear defiance of how things work across the teeming spaces uncountably multivalent contradictory and simpatico and the whonym not obliterated not as if its never been but just another transient member of vastness a speck in the gestures of consciousness

 

if we extol failure patanymity desolation abjection fracture unknowing retreat anomie solitude this extolment but be an aspect of the ways we walk in our seeking our decentering

 

and these very ways preclude a laying of techniques for decentered writing a la the workshop mobs of academe and its affixes or the systems of presumed volition and success technique withdraws for principles principles for walking

 

i cant decide whether on these paths i become more artificial or natural real or affix or not nevertheless we record them for you whether you be bot djinn or bear and this cant decide itself another walking of the way

 

so consciousness langwich geometry apophatics become the centre of literature but a centre everywhere and through and in and questioning all things

 

literature then isnt about describing the antics and gushes of a particular species happening to be existent for a spin of geological passage but a freedom of exploration and adventure in entrustments and subjunctivities a tracing of the movement of dust

 

for even the whonym as all other things is not itself not this contained circumscription but an embeddedment a going forth and relation a beyond and alterity and so we minimize the involvement of our meatspirit complex in the exotatic buzz and scrimmage of the whonym in its reflexive fortresses to journey inward for there we find we find we disappear and in that disappearance the subject also the centre too and if literature remains its less this thing that strives to be a thing less a sector of culture claiming to represent ideals or truths of whatever degree of pleasantness or bile objectivity or hallucination excellence or depravity attributive power or antithetic aimlessness than a summoning of presence indistinguishable from an absence of summoning 

 

theres then no method to pass on to you no tradition best practices manifesto yet along with all the creatures and things and spirits we enter scripts of performative play of writing literature without a whonym centre

enchanting incanting entering the body of song

literature hasnt even hit expressionism yet

 

of course it has all literature does is express

 

but its straitjacked by expression limited to meaning

 

what else would it do

 

expressing in painting can just be expressing without meaning - you see what you see - the object is there and that is it

 

nothings beyond meaning

 

to get beyond meaning as weve been stressing involves allowing langwich to become itself rather than enslaving it to the whonym - an important migration in this process is transmuting communication to incantation - an alchemical process

 

so literatures singing - a genre of music

 

its been sung or at least croaked that theres a tower of song which musicians inhabit in fleshy and ghostly forms but writers - who arent actually writers but mediums and magicians sorcerers and pilgrims - dont inhabit any towers but clearings - literatures a khôra clearing - and the primary task of the unwriter is to clear - clear for singing

 

so literatures a subjectile

 

more it sojourns through subjectility and objectility to patatility

 

you cant just say literatures pataphysics

 

not at all - pataphysics is specific orientations and rites of specificities toward the currents crux - a mobius stripping of present potentatios - but remove the substantive as weve been advocating - free pata to wander where it will - then its no problem to say literatures pata

 

for all things are pata

 

in the way that all things are body so the clearing to clear and enter is body but not in those bourgeois ways - product and pilates maxgasms and wellity - but the body as it functions - from guts to anus to stomach to dripping reeking brain - the whole mess

 

what does literature express then

 

langwich - literature is langwich - literature expresses itself - literature hasnt encountered itself yet and why we say novel hasnt yet noveled - novels still gestating in meaning and has to birth and bite the umbilical cord as film has had to bite the cord of narrative and realism - a practice is to live as if youre in a scifi movie on a planet that doesnt obey the dictates of commercialism and instrumental reason - that doesnt know anything about the principalities imposed on earth - that configures itself ontologically and dimensionally in ways only vaguely analogous to whonyms

 

sounds like a synecdoche of insanity

 

want to hear a good joke - how do you have a novel without a whonym centre - make langwich the centre for langwichs nothing whonym

 

its not funny though

 

its actually very funny - novel has no place for it is every place - no character for it is every character - it lacks roots other than rootedness in its derooted self

 

youre drawing a comparison with atonal music

 

music without a tonal centre yes - literatures been scared to lose its false centre - the whonym - in the way societys broadly still effectively scared to lose its false centre - the political god - the divine politic - music began experimenting with this loss decades ago facilitated as weve said by the synthesizer - which is the primary sonic technological transit to enable commutation through modernitys shackles - literatures more devoted to ponderosity though as weve locked words and meaning in a cell together and are terrified of their independence - weve wired them together and reified the wiring - but technology permits their release and freedom - their relational and wandering play - this is the reconstitution of literature - what we call sometimes renoveling novel - and the patadoodao project

 

sounds like a meaning

 

everything sounds like a meaning if you live in meaning but decentre meaning - patch langwich into the universe in which the whonyms just a smelly patch of cosmic dust way over there - turn langwich into a synthesizer - and presto

 

presto what

 

presto presto - whatever you presto

 

thanks doo - meaningless as always

beyond meaning and meaninglessness

and beyond beyond

 

magnanimously delighted fuk to volt together today way under the singapore mrt

 

 

gek poh

 

in a clearing

in the thicket

in a clearing

an incantation of communication

central to our vain task of renoveling novels a notion a question quest a potion - these four one - a carrefour of patanarrative

 

renoveling? somethings required before the verb and lets call it an affix - return to novel transcend novel decreate novel parallelize tessellate pataize novel simulate ravel invisibilize novel crawl under into novel behind it alongside 

 

novel renoveling we muse walks paths away from communication as its taught in the corridors of pedantry correction productivity knowledge and toward abandoned quarries of incantation

 

were not trying to establish relationships with readers to understand or have an audience* to empathize with the infinite complaints of being whonym to paint history or the people in words of glory compassion ridicule precision to reflect and transcribe these sentiments in some hovel or temple of art whether prefab fab confab fabian quaffable fabling to migod express ideas to build bridges of meaning between ourself whatever that is and our constituents imaginary or real whatever those are to fukmysoul get noticed published laid apotheosized prizes on the lists

 

rather novel doo experiences all that stuff we might lump under the meaningless rubric communication as having overdone itself like soggy polenta left on high on the grill for too many centuries

 

novel reconstitutes communication for communication in its transactional directed meaningized utilitarian whonymbound qualities is like a monsanto potato and we would return and progress and drop and climb to communication as a cry to the spirits of the earth

 

a cry mutating communication into incantation

 

we would enter chanting as souls bereft of ourself

 

we would sing in our glimmery cells in the prison of the universe

 

novel isnt about whonyms for whonyms by whonyms of whonyms but an entering into and participation in spaces before after through all things in which the whonyms but a waft and womb - spaces before which we are but one recalcitrant amount forever countless

 

a creaky bridge from void to void

 

incantation not primarily arising from a recognizable tradition but from the energies one seeks in the darkness of oneselves - not to bewitch cast spells exorcise but to reciprocate - whats being reciprocated - a mutual summonings - not to any end but for the perpetuity of the mutual summonings - to maintain and nurture the energies between the worlds of spirit and meat dumped as we are in woeing civilizations that actively attempt to destroy the relationships between them

 

we dont care about making you feel or think anything we care about your entering incantational space

 

for nothing can go on as its been going even novel reason has lost its way virtue has taken off its mask conformity and nonconformity alike flounder in the muck of their opposition we mutter broken charms in the rubble of mirrors not in hope or wisdom not in wellness or death but only in the shattering muttering

 

the politician can no longer be politician the priest priest entrepreneur entrepreneur spouse spouse or banker banker the novelist can no longer be novelist or novel novel now all we enter song enchanting

 

we return to simulations and simulate returning and these two are the same and what this sameness is is a door to manifold subtlety to tentative darkness

 

we play the carillon we find at the nadir of night - its tower rather than rising drops into the earth and we build a ladder of rags and tears and descend and croak alongside the cracked bells of insignificance

 

all thats left to do is scream and whisper spells through the prayer of unknowing we plant in our meat we transmute the whispers and screams into streams of bewitchment this screaming planting praying transmuting exorcising we call novel it casts communication aside communications a trauma of the technological present a toxin of truth

 

sing polyphonic solitude

as lies buzz through the air

i disperse myself into digital contradiction

lay out the promise of suffering like tarot

smoke is my inhalation i exhale visions

and sing in the destruction of ends

 

always incanted

possessed ceaselessly

      of what   

love naturally

 

unnoveling thoughts arising in stoodio doo

as it sings two hundred and eighty three metres

under gek poh under the metro

under singapore under the world

* but maybe oddiences