readers! being a sadoo is no harder or easier
than being a manager of prunes, subway operator, european council president,
shaman, sex worker, or farmer. but the challenges are different and the
literature scarce. a sadoo’s distinction is partially that these other jobs –
despite their vast differences – all trade in common concerns and values; they
cooperate – even in their antitheses and struggles – in societal production and
its members share a faith in time. a sadoo doesn’t necessarily discredit time,
but neither does it affirm it; time for a sadoo is equal to potato or malediction. who would have faith in a potato? who would live
inside it? who would give it greater credence than the billion billion things
apart from time? and if you would say – but
these other things (potatoes, maledictions, operators, faiths) themselves are functions of time and aspects
of it, i, fukky, would say – this is
faith! i have no evidence that an operator is more a function of time than
time a function of an operator. becoming is a process of disillusionment and signs
of becoming are the newborn illusions that arise.
to support, then, such doubts and happinesses,
now and then i include in sadoos letters from our diverse community – members of the psychic
rainforest (often threatened or extinct in the wild, members of the menagerie
of the soul).
if you would write me –
fukky risotto
minto island lagoon
c/o acteon group
tuamotus
mangareva islands
pōrīnetia farāni
gaul
– and i’ll respond to you when dew speaks and
fire dreams.
today i’m pleased to respond to sadoo 9.9 of
troff panny, who writes of an issue that engages and inspires us all – madness.
dear fukky,
when i was 11 – i remember the day vividly –
i was in the upstairs bathroom of my parents’ home, eating boogers in the
bathtub – and i realized i was destined to become a student of madness. while
this truth has never left me, i paid it scant attention until i was 22 – the
time one begins taking life seriously, and then set out to seek madness’
unknown paths. by 33 all i had learned were the paths madness wasn’t, and one
of these is the path most call madness. for the names of the sane are designed
to disguise their complicity in manufacturing the monsters they require to
sustain the mirrors of their viability. being then the handmaid of a false
sanity, i wanted no more to do with that madness than i did with sanity. by 44
i had ridden the often loud and colorful carousel of alternatives. shamans,
hallucinogens, gurus, zen masters, prophets, creators, anarchists, ecologists,
atavists, nudists, bohemians, polyamorists, retreat leaders, musicians, ngo
ed’s, witch doctors, anti-psychiatrists … but all of them had web sites and
were more interested in money and pleasure than madness. by 55 i had wandered
through the most arcane reaches of knowledge scattered randomly in time and
space. i had sought – and found – the most obscure writers – philosophers,
poets, mystics – in the most obscure books in the most obscure libraries in the
most obscure locations, loved only by dust. but in the end they only stated in
more abstruse and neglected form what others said in commonplaces and loudly,
from turrets, spires, and skyscrapers. by 66 i had stopped seeking and fell
into myself, a curious child of chaos and void. and this falling was neither
constructive nor destructive, enlightening nor despairing, ignorant nor
educational, a step forward nor a step back. at 77, i turned to technology and
became a cyborg, replacing as much of my body as possible with electronics,
supplementing my newborn machine flesh with pharmaceuticals, inseparable from
media, polydimensional sensuality, the edges of techgnosis. now, at 88,
soon to die, doubting life’s seriousness, a concatenated mash of beeps and
flashes, knowing there are no schools or mentors in madness, no guides, no
curricula, no communities … one walks alone ... i write to you, administrator of
sadoos.
sadoo 9.9 of troff panny
dear sadoo 9.9 of troff panny,
you have walked a path of madness and madness
is only a path. your bathtub vision has been embodied and made metal. so we all
walk and so visions turn to flesh and silicon, silicon and flesh to visions,
these sublimations of the soul. thanks for sharing.
fukky
