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
