February 8
Indolent, unconscious, powerful young men, aware that action is demanded. Naked, cigars high in the air, their attention caught (amid the general indifference) by the swarms of people calling out, hanging from their watch-chains. A poignant shadow falls, tossed down, thrown sky-high, scattering women.
A quite specific form of male community. By the end of the sixteenth century are not in real life but rather it is this constant error, the word produced by these men and found in all forms, have invented more stories than the millenarians, their purity of mind there, trying, no doubt, to muster field labor and the applause of liberal cretins throughout Europe, to say “yes” without ever stopping, to facilitate its own evasion, the same blind eagerness for plunder torn up avidly by the roots, the living force. An hour for breakfast and an hour for dinner, repeating the same formulas over and over again. Those who cannot or will not take care of themselves. And now, gentlemen, farewell, and may we meet again in yonder better world, in the warm and pure moral atmosphere of the factory, with the dimmed eyes, the lolling tongue, with the hands clasped, as punishment. But (think of the Oxford professor) not before the false conclusions of the original discovery, eyes turned to works of nature frozen in a mask of rejection. This passivity of man is real activity. Like Oedipus he saw two suns. Two great blue stars, hills of black coal, grey ashes in a burnt-out grate.
The uncomfortable region derives explicitly from this point. The thing that you represent face to face with me has no heart in its breast. That which seems to throb there, surrounded, is my own heart beating, unable to do so without the most painful sensation. Long tendrils with white roots reaching down into the stomach and intestines. Roots that remain embedded. Time, language, tools and weapons simultaneously present in all habitats in their full vigor, their destructive potential. That all plagues are related, repeatedly and endlessly reproduced. Violins, crucifixes, hammers. All forms innately familiar. Ghosts pinned under heavy stone. Wrists extended for the handcuffs. Large numbers of the dead, tethered and given permanent shape, pale under the lamp and the knife, the blade condensed in its gleam, the brilliant cold shroud.
The air like an old membrane suffering from a new disease, residue of an elevated state. The poisonous kingdom. Desire and its attractions, stunning brain-orchids growing over dead eyes, over the body until the subject, the paler flower under glass, something confined for centuries under a bell jar, sloughs off one organ after another, organs squandered and divided, already occupied, gesturing and colliding in the atmosphere, transformed by the market, a diary for a worn-out world dislocated under the scalpel. My mouth in this fine text, extinguished, inundated, inescapably immersed in blood, sunk into the flesh of it completely, a final solution to the language problem. The mind, ie. the patient, being forced through the coffin, dismissed and returned, not to surpass this sordid level, those abysms consciousness rediscovers, the smell of mammals right out of the clear blue sky, perfect for burning. So that their bodies finally melt into light.
The survivors pass through fog, cross voids, ground buried deep within, cross over the whole lie of the inward body. Over the body until the subject dominates the spirit of the dead, who have themselves been drained dry by the psychic ecstasy of survival, the duplicitous ideology that prevents defense against any further hybridization into immutable biological molds. Grief, apathy and death conveying a limited immunity, an anatomy under the collar of law, beyond the distress of their limbs. No joined hands. No raised cigars.
The smell of cinders in the cellar. The whole sadistic machinery of crime ornamented with the obligatory circumstantial coating of gold. The mummification of blood with hollow walls and windows, in isolation, as personal disaster and all possible annihilation, encoded, and for this evasion, constraint, embrace, pain forms the entrance, makes the necessary gesture which saves ineradicable cowards. Out alone in the evening stamping feet under strange lighting, in search of the refinements and familiarities of this etiquette, an approximate definition of place, to pierce the facade. The house, all too soon, a hollow form, ultimately familiar. The dawn one with the dead of night.
Indolent, unconscious, powerful young men, aware that action is demanded. Naked, cigars high in the air, their attention caught (amid the general indifference) by the swarms of people calling out, hanging from their watch-chains. A poignant shadow falls, tossed down, thrown sky-high, scattering women.
A quite specific form of male community. By the end of the sixteenth century are not in real life but rather it is this constant error, the word produced by these men and found in all forms, have invented more stories than the millenarians, their purity of mind there, trying, no doubt, to muster field labor and the applause of liberal cretins throughout Europe, to say “yes” without ever stopping, to facilitate its own evasion, the same blind eagerness for plunder torn up avidly by the roots, the living force. An hour for breakfast and an hour for dinner, repeating the same formulas over and over again. Those who cannot or will not take care of themselves. And now, gentlemen, farewell, and may we meet again in yonder better world, in the warm and pure moral atmosphere of the factory, with the dimmed eyes, the lolling tongue, with the hands clasped, as punishment. But (think of the Oxford professor) not before the false conclusions of the original discovery, eyes turned to works of nature frozen in a mask of rejection. This passivity of man is real activity. Like Oedipus he saw two suns. Two great blue stars, hills of black coal, grey ashes in a burnt-out grate.
The uncomfortable region derives explicitly from this point. The thing that you represent face to face with me has no heart in its breast. That which seems to throb there, surrounded, is my own heart beating, unable to do so without the most painful sensation. Long tendrils with white roots reaching down into the stomach and intestines. Roots that remain embedded. Time, language, tools and weapons simultaneously present in all habitats in their full vigor, their destructive potential. That all plagues are related, repeatedly and endlessly reproduced. Violins, crucifixes, hammers. All forms innately familiar. Ghosts pinned under heavy stone. Wrists extended for the handcuffs. Large numbers of the dead, tethered and given permanent shape, pale under the lamp and the knife, the blade condensed in its gleam, the brilliant cold shroud.
The air like an old membrane suffering from a new disease, residue of an elevated state. The poisonous kingdom. Desire and its attractions, stunning brain-orchids growing over dead eyes, over the body until the subject, the paler flower under glass, something confined for centuries under a bell jar, sloughs off one organ after another, organs squandered and divided, already occupied, gesturing and colliding in the atmosphere, transformed by the market, a diary for a worn-out world dislocated under the scalpel. My mouth in this fine text, extinguished, inundated, inescapably immersed in blood, sunk into the flesh of it completely, a final solution to the language problem. The mind, ie. the patient, being forced through the coffin, dismissed and returned, not to surpass this sordid level, those abysms consciousness rediscovers, the smell of mammals right out of the clear blue sky, perfect for burning. So that their bodies finally melt into light.
The survivors pass through fog, cross voids, ground buried deep within, cross over the whole lie of the inward body. Over the body until the subject dominates the spirit of the dead, who have themselves been drained dry by the psychic ecstasy of survival, the duplicitous ideology that prevents defense against any further hybridization into immutable biological molds. Grief, apathy and death conveying a limited immunity, an anatomy under the collar of law, beyond the distress of their limbs. No joined hands. No raised cigars.
The smell of cinders in the cellar. The whole sadistic machinery of crime ornamented with the obligatory circumstantial coating of gold. The mummification of blood with hollow walls and windows, in isolation, as personal disaster and all possible annihilation, encoded, and for this evasion, constraint, embrace, pain forms the entrance, makes the necessary gesture which saves ineradicable cowards. Out alone in the evening stamping feet under strange lighting, in search of the refinements and familiarities of this etiquette, an approximate definition of place, to pierce the facade. The house, all too soon, a hollow form, ultimately familiar. The dawn one with the dead of night.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 5:54 PM
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