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
