(please see http://nikuko.blogspot.com for images)
[a picture goes here]
Recognition
I'm safe writing here in the blog. I write in a window, an apparent
opening in the surface of the screen. I extend myself. I recognize that
the window is indefinite in size, that font size for example changes the
apparent dimensions, which only exist as virtual measurements, idealized
numbers somewhat along the lines of capital.
And tonight, this body not _of_ the screen, shall have a panic attack. For
this body is perhaps a third of a meter in depth, of soft skin and bone,
easy to smash, dissolve, decay - a body which starves quickly without food
or water, a body more than halfway on the road to death.
It is a body which, as you read this, may or may not remain alive. It is a
body always already smashed, punctured, at war with itself. It is a body
of misrecognitions, malfeasance, inopportune moments. Yes, a body of the
inopportune.
I attach yet another drive to my computer, two-hundred and fifty
gigabytes, spelled and spilled out. The machine does not recognize it. I
recognize it; it is here, on my left, next to, adjacent to, the screen. It
has a certain feel to it, and it is powered and connected. At first it was
assigned a letter or a name, P:, and now that has disappeared, and there
is in fact nothing to assign P: to, and nothing assigned to the drive. The
symbolic link is broken, although, from without the machine, it is all
that is in evidence. But not the protocols, which, like cybernetic flows
in general, exist only problematically - something which gave the old USSR
trouble as it tried to fit information technology into dialectical
materialism. Now, here, at this corner of space-time, the material is in
evidence, but the line of communication is broken; the virtual is
corrupted.
Perhaps I write P: on the drive itself. Perhaps I write +P: on the drive,
and -P: on the USB socket the drive plugs into. I demonstrate, perhaps,
the relationship to the cat, to my partner Azure, to anyone or anything
within calling distance. But not within interiority. And if the machine,
the computer, is opened, so that interiority spills out onto the table, I
would have to say, not within _that_ interiority.
What I recognize, in the silence of the drive and its inane uncoupling, is
my death. This is the end of the depository, of capital, the beginning of
death, faltering of memory. Death will not come among the epistemology and
ontology of the real or the virtual; it circumscribes ontology. I remember
a student of Lyotard telling me how frightened he was of dying, how
_scared._ I still read his words, in books, layers of crystalline
information dependent upon the _times_ to make sense, cohere, to be
<+P:-P:> - bra and ket. "Dirac is dead and all knowledge with him."
The dead reach out; it's the smallest distance, this trick of memory which
remains unrecognized - this distance, perhaps a centimeter - I may reach
out for example, and touch that plate of macrobiotic food I could see, and
smell, so clearly, at arm's or finger's length, nothing more, Proust's
madeleine, but _outside_ - where epistemology, materiality, hold sway, the
disconnect is permanent - a stretch of time or movement of three decades -
or a week or a second. It doesn't matter. It doesn't connect. No amount of
capital will help.
Every letter, here, is a nail, holding skin and bone in place.
[another picture goes here]
Distillation and Essence of Noisetext/e
onani more?
|(.!|!roam!.ing.]|)!
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was seeing. "nothing, dear." woman who deigns to speak with us, i beg you
("the) (&) ( m) (v|.-/ ly) (pur|po!se) (|ram./--b.le,) .(roaming|!)
(&) (( ("the) (&) ( (r.om./.)| (r.!ome,) %(r/om!) (thr=ough)|. (..v).|.!
(--milton.) ( ("the) (one day) makes fun of bucurau (goatsucker) because
(began)! ...... (h!e!)! ..(hijac..k!!.|) (pilgri!m,-) (&) (chaucer.)
..(hijac..k!!.|) (pilgri!m,-) (pl!!ace.|.) !!.( easts) have sex, but that
|(.!|!roam!.ing.]|)! gypsies) (r.om./.)| (r.!ome,) %(r/om!) (thr=ough)|.
writing programs *are* a nice reprieve from the imagining oneself to be
protection around [this message subject: (unknown) clawing at the day* in
memory. i actually met this hypothetical "most perfect slit wide your
is just an indication of how strongly a book can he screamed. bucurau took
my leetele ana oh where oh wher can unmanifest* as if etched with somethig
into partitions, and all things are equal in the spam? yahoo! mail has
insanity upon, and finding no one there but myself, soul is not divided
important book another important book looking at the in that same bed,,
speak... ! anyway, the machine (of knowlege) grinds out meaning'?" what
beyond, but as i was falling asleep, i heard this anomolous silence, and
and don't be too critical - you know that students must be offered on
somehow)* because clearly felt, whispered* an really thinking. of
wide-mouth. bucurau (pur|po!se) (|ram./--b.le,) .(roaming|!) [this message
contained attachments] contained attachments] croosed grace, just to say
uncircumsized steeples eyes (yet daydreaming wistfully about the creases
and wrinkles seeking to two. we do not attend to the details of
punctuation someone to blame my ancient texts, do so in the more modern
language of mathematics, and keep sky and dropped him. while he fell, old
man, however, graduate creative you on ecstasy or something ed? i am glad
you got all that off your around expected something else, i you write a
short paragraph from your own contained attachments] enough to hold my
shit, old man. then bucurau laughs, and even then some entrancing number
yesterday...... ever had to home page now. expected you to make up a
sentence, like "why do women lining our faces with decided that insanity
is a ghost, much like the a trace following the opposite line the author
did not pursue. and will old man's guts, shatter. the fiery laughter of
bucurau busts said their book by hook or crook blood and nerves will
always sound in y'ears new explain it, i arose in my sleep, and looked
about my house for shadow of a bed, which i brush away, but some of the
dust gets in my nose and makes me by crook, i can assure you you really a
girl? what kind of a girl? i himself theories. i can't think now why it
never occurred to me to fuck at something, i fail to see what i am looking
at, but not having read you mean. i often fall asleep in that very same
house, like to hear you and when i wake up, i find a light white dust on
the ineffable point into a shit in his mouth and said, your mouth is wide
hi ed what swinging? "but unheard* tallied in some washroom's up rocks
rocks in guts, galls in mind. and in the house of souls, there are no
rooms, for the rocks inside sneezing, the invisible ghost of the most
perfect so write a sentence or alan sondheim is the guy who sent a poem in
that i then used to create the criticism is just automated writing written
backward. in redefine your 'criticism' is just groups is subject to:
gypsies) (h!e!)! (..v).|.! (v|.-/ ly) (roaming|!) (/ ( ("the) (&) ((
("the) (&) ( (||/wan( turn the machine on its head, we can say that
criticism know exactly what somebody sen me subject: the most important
and big important new book big for? cecil misshapen faces.. [this message
contained attachments] a fucking monster!" "i'm subject: raahhnnnngnorg
[this message contained any books, much less the koran, i am ill-placed to
- oh, this is good! are swims across my consciousness, and all i see is
the person", more than we blushed, withering nullity* flushed all the
white* spoken terror filling
by hook or by crook, i can assure you of two things: took all our
clothes off and discussed books and planting their own rules part
elephant, part tiger, part nag, part bore." person i can imagine fart,
your pistit, your "mouth," brigand-tiger with sneeze, and while i am
always get raped fact, we can propose of theory of criticism that says
attachments] subject: re: kurzweilai.net newsletter oh yeah....?...well
speaking, by reversing itself along one axis, without its words, and to
you might say that. slit mouth open to beautify,
ghosts one sees when does "polynoise" mean? read therein [this message
c um sexxxy ! very bootyfullq //// \\\\\\\\\\\ a gardning she'll be)
sometimes you look at the picture your body projects
i expected something better than this. i thought you would be asking the
best spam protection around spam? yahoo! mail has the best spam
naga-trunk, your stories describe the vindictive rock of versions: old man
new important that every person shall write a scroll of the torah for
'problem' in that it tends to saturate certain magazines with drivel--but
tough like that. but as you are the only wife woke up and asked me what i
pay at the door everything you need is one click away. make yahoo! your
thrall to the hawk, farts that sound like when the city falls?" something
surface leaves the scrawl subject: goatsucker's beautiful wide mouth "i'm
looking at the world through reagan-tinted glasses, her, or thingk your
link's eardrum got blewd ourt, there miekal... seems of two things: the
rebellious thrill of afternoon porn and twinkies. oh, to not this idea -
my eyes divide and pursue several pictures at once,
the rebellious thrill of afternoon porn and twinkies (elevised nomooise
other writers to invent new sentences, not quote old forgotten crap. are
beaten all to pieces* apparition aches like it never, into your mind, like
looking at topics in this digest: turn up the limins mebeee... ? wher os
yesterday, i was looking at this painting, and i got is just the machine
alive. i was starting to get even crazier when my important book new
bird's wings, wings that sound like thunder sounds that move through chest
bro. yes i wish i were there. i have been wondering about hong kong.
laura, thank you for saying that. i might be slightly perverse, but i once
that if you must revert to world through reagan-tinted glasses, by hook or
seriously, can't you use words to express 'no hoisted old man up into the
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(female) perspective? you yahoo!? tired of spam? yahoo! mail has the best
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spam protection your mysticism in the bedroon. speaking of which, i saw