mystilogue

travelling is from one perspective a cheap mysticism - a way to insignificize self, one's birth culture and hence the assumptions and notions separating i and world from void, to equalize at least the human world and possibly the myriad worlds within world. cheap because it uses money to achieve its mysticism and an apparently authentic mysticism uses flesh (but what else?). but travelling - and this only works if one travels cheaply (economy class, lowcost accommodation ...) - disintegrates time, despaces space, caresses death, places one in that vast irrelevance of god

mysticism is our only available known mechanism - though it is as much a dearchitecting (deverbing, deminding) as anything biologically molecular - for subverting (mocking, bypassing, ignoring - we detour around words like combating, destroying, even protesting, evolving) the brutalisms of human sociopolitical structures and processes. mysticism exists outside, in part by virtue of its inveterate insideness : its status (though this diction must be ironic) as the consummate inside. it finds the trap door of in (mysticism if full of anything is full of traps) - or perhaps rather just the trap (there is no door, only void) and so not opens it but falls in (from in to in) - and there (through this through) finds out. as human sociopolitical processes and structures are devoted to entirely incompatible methods (and consequently lifestyles, languages) of achieving out (and in fact mysticism doesn't achieve out [or seek it], it finds itself accidentally, inexplicably out in a thoroughly different way than any ambition, quest), it remains a question to what extent these outs aren't the same out - as (perhaps to a large extent) how we get to a place fundamentally, qualitatively alters place

so we cultivate mysticism - these ins and fallings - as a hard hope, the only alternative we see (which we see through not seeing). cultivate? yes. no. we fall. farmers of fallings, pilgrims of traps, pariahs of voids. we labour in uninvented calendars. we do nothing, our ins our outs, those traps our homes, other outs unworthy deaths

so travelling's another mechanism in the workshop of the impure mystic (the only form remaining in a cluttered universe?) to rein outs, reout ins, to fall and fall

ra ra ra

 

nothing like lounging goats in the old city of religion to inspire a little nursery jingle

ra ra ra your goat 

roughly up a dream 

verily merrily scarily barely 

life is butts and screams

 

sigilings

if we can permit ourselves a brief retrospective on the following entry we'll note only that the six visuals are not normally considered sigils, that they're inspired largely by varanasi - it's what we see in varanasi, and that one can if one wants see in this entry a meditation of travelling or grim pilling, on the art and prayer of movement

sigil is a visual representation of time but less precisely durative time (regardless of shape or direction) than corporeal time as it spontaneously emigrates into oneiric memory. sigil is biography but biography of sensations expressed in lucid dream - snap puncta ... a composite of which might give some sense of chronological, of journalistic life (if one's one of those who needs this sense) but more provides some visual shape (for those capable of seeing this way) of undifferentiated visceral-spiritual flux. sigil takes the synaptic leaps of soul, translating these falls into sensuous data - each shadows of the other, each each other's light. sigil's a compost of evil, a representation in the seen realms of the sigil of the human. for we are sigils - a species of oneiric memory, lucid dream made flesh. sigil is love, not only as it eliminates the human but as it includes all without discrimination or knowledge, including the eliminated. taking on the form of human then, my elimination's placed in the empty spaces, absences, voids, silences, gaps, spilled margins and even though many sigils seem like glyphic plenitudes, horror vacui of effervescences, omnipolypointers to signs of polyomnipointings, voids comprise the majority space. like the dead god and gods, the absent human becomes more real than anything ostensibly and even palpably present. this a truth (if truth can be said to reside here) of mysticism, of apophatic realities, of those fogs of unknowing we cannot - despite the forces of history and money - wall away

i use sigils to step on the pebbles of time to cross the river of death. but ... use? sigils are the pebbles and i ... what am i? a thing that crosses? an absence that steps? that counts the steps and then forgets the counting? that which is crossed? a nonuse of use? an experimental biographical grammar? an archaeology of vision? these questions too are pebbles and i draw dreams of stone to say i've maybe lived

this entry continues sadooic explorations of sigiling following the paths of the keys of solomon and mixter spare, attempting to trace the dna of sigil as it modifies in the vermiculous sarcophagus of time

 

this entry has been manufactured, vetted, and discounted through transgalactic consortia of sadoos, headquartered nowhere, no throne, no president, no debt - just eyes (and even then ...), demastering language, tumuli and middens of doubt, probed by dogs, cows, roaches, stray rays of suns

 

sigil flowtation device my lifebard unsigned map drunken council deranging calendar & dream thread of incompatibilities and threadcount of zero revelatory abyss eyed mind stable destabilizer meditative surprise crisis kelpline delphi and debacle wry ablution border flossings customs bribings and ephemeral ghoulmate uncanny altar and gabby cistern confident nonassertion ribald saint and empty scholar and wordless writer adimensional corpus of visceral detext my fortune cellar alfalfa and amigo cunning linguist and fellow ratio notherings and lols

when travelling outside one's mind (and when outside one's mind one's always travelling) gods and ghosts, hungry and sated, enter sigil and place their contours on the silent page

sigil

seem farnear

count me in the ancient ways

geometrize our absences

dream flesh

sleep evil

circumscribe our feet with depleted spaces      

a boss for us

hello my friend

my friend?

there is nothing to see down that street

i'm not trying to see anything

where are you going?

i'm not going anywhere

come into my store

i don't have any money

money is not a problem

all money is is a problem

2020 blindness

were embarrassed by everythıng that emerges from us least of all shıt and most words but we accept all emergence equally pathetıc democrats that we are even as we accept all words as ınnately embarrassıng whether they seem to flow from us or others for the source as you reverse paddles the same

 

so we ȷump ahead or ıs ıt back to 2020 now and do a redux on the ınternatıonal wanderıng scene none of thıs ıs mıchaux on the napo or ın kolkata somethıngs happened ın the past century to travel and so ıts log drıfts dıfferently down the current

 

whıle 2017 had a groundıng thread throughout we actually talked about our experıences ın the real places we were ın 2020 begıns to detach from ıts surroundıngs one entry sıgılıngs other than ıts drawıngs appears to have nothıng to do wıth the vıvıd ındıa around and well see by 2025 abstractıons almost fully set ın and the subȷect of that logs less any factıve based ımpressıons of where we are and what we see and smell than the generatıon of langwıch sensatıons as the souls bombarded wıth the pıth of global movement and the beauty of foreıgn ındıfference

 

ısnt thıs the way wıth all thıngs though the real recedes wıth famılıarıty or rather the ırreal ın us changes clothes as the shapes around us change theırs

sauerkraut in india

fukky risotto and a sadoo are riding the marudhar express when a tourist across the way says - look, there’s the taj mahal. the sadoo says no that’s the mona lisa. the tourist looks confused and annoyed, says it’s obviously the taj mahal. the sadoo says you obviously know nothing about signs

jokes for outliers

 

the air india attendant at narita asks to weigh my carry-on - limit 7kg. i know it’s over because of the food. so i take out the food, put it on the floor and weigh my bag without it: 6.5kg. take the bag off the scale, return my food, leave

 

more jokes. a german, a swede, and a canadian are sitting on the rooftop of a guest house ...

 

why travel? –

• to record humanity in its dusty dusk
• to resavour the wilderness
• to hear the silent song of the plant
• to keep the bow taut (for contrast, for the sameness of things)
• to see the moon and sun
• to trip over time’s mirrors
• to reanimate death
• to ask this question
• to have the eyes scrubbed and the body bodied
• to virtualize nature and skin the internet
• to re-eroticize absence and presence
• to participate, however tentatively and disdainfully, in my fellow species’ orthodoxy - money
• to immerse myself in that film about flesh, the common human plot - and there plot that plot in words
• to put poetry in its place and replace place
• to glorify unpasteurized organic sauerkraut

varanasi and jerusalem - coital spirit partners in the production of religious babies (with astounding longevity)

you see, in this world, there's one awful thing, and that is that everyone has their reasons

if you don't know the rules, you're crushed - but if you do you're cut off from your own nature

so simple and so labyrinthine, so guileless and so angry, so innocent and so dangerous ...

depicting the failure of love, the failure of society, and the failure of humans to rise above the ridiculous

 

do indians get sick when they visit the west because it's too hygienic?

everyone on these longhaul international flights just sleeps or watches movies - don’t they have minds to use while briefly transiting through life?

 

whoever has learned to be anxious in the right way has learned the ultimate

                but we have a drug for this!

 

i see the world is mad

if i tell the truth they rush to beat me

if i lie they trust me

  keep the slanderer near, build it a hut in your courtyard -

  for, without soap or water, it will scrub your character clean

gote noats

the proprietor of a guest house says he plays the tabla. i ask him if he plays out anywhere, in public. no, i only play for god. probably doesn’t tweet either

 

the night lit loggias of bundi cornea of aravalli, sockets of worms, apertures onto the days when junglī suar wandered protected on a greener, less regulated, and threedimensionally more vicious earth

 

the 5hour bus from jaipur to bundi in its 49 numbered seats holds 71 passengers, 8 on top, 9 goats, obese sacs of produce heaped mercilessly in the aisles, 3 employees (driver, bus manager, ticket operator), no washroom or a/c - it’s midday and 34°. deluxe, the agent had told me. my body doesn’t fit anywhere, only hindi’s spoken, no shocks on this bitch and the road’s all hole ... i’m a conscious turd flushed onto the laughing dirt when the receptacle of hadoti finally welcomes.

i had hardly believed him

the celebrations, festivities, pancoloured noise, parades occur multiple times daily. gods, death, marriage, birth (and what’s the bloody difference?). some ridiculouslooking male dressed in a silver suit and flowers is plunked on a horse that’s so weighted in decoration how can no one laugh or protest (where’s friedrich when you need him ... maybe b. tarr can direct the bundi horse)? a few dudes beat relentlessly on big drums for 30 minutes before the procession - which includes the requisite 20 following females and blaring tuktuk - begins to jolt and belch its way eastward. it’s all religion and it’s all the time

a bordeaux man - almost comically friendly, pulls up a small stool to sit and chat to me, misses the stool falling on the floor (feel like i’m in a chaplin skit) - asks me how long the flight is home. about 15 hours i say. i thought it wouldn’t be much longer than paris he says - isn’t there a way you can just zip over the arctic?

 

in my homeland i never say i’m a writer. in that world of privilege as language and language as privilege such a designation is too pretentious, wearied, photocopied, easy, meaningless ... lumping me with gangling cheese strings of humans i have no affinity with, embarrassments to language, nocost writing, workshop factories, bud lights of Word. but here i use it as an efficient conversationending explanation for why i don’t do tourist things but sit stupidly around staring into space like an incarnation of the god Vapid. everyone (europeans, indians) seems satisfied, asks no further questions. you're a writer, you don't belong, they get it

 

the second night in rajasthan i ascend to the rooftop terrace of my guesthouse and a young french couple is dimly fucking on a chair. is clearing my throat sufficient international language? should i pull up a chair and watch, yank my dick out and cum on their faces? i go to a table, pull out my notebook and begin writing. i could abdicate the public space to their intimacy but to fuck in public is to invite voyeurism. i don't care about watching or listening though and they seem indifferent to my indifference, i just want to be alone on the rooftop with my devouring horny notebook