Karma, dog

"Genocide is suicide"
-- like a squabble 
among fleas,
that irritates the dog.

AND the dog,
on its way back to earth,
will surrender
every last cell and speck.

Ticks and mites live
on this eternal return,
present like bacteria,
viral

like honesty.


Always short
between the tall
for to include all,
you would really
have to mean it, 
when you say:
`and I do mean all´.

a way with sadness

                                                                                    ( Antagonist by Theodore Kittelsen)

And doesn't it  thus become clear
that there is root nor reason
 for this sadness?

That it is not just
subjective affection
and nonsense as such?

 The organic heart
of my world body
made heavy

by the misrepresentation
that thwarts both purpose
and being

and maintains the alienation
of what sense I can make of it

as if the world was utterly 
beyond me

so that whatever I feel
it's just me 

whatever I do,
incoherent

as long as it is not what
I am  supposed to do

For sure it's nothing
if not quantifiable
according to the logic
of  money and profit

that if I refuse the robbery
I would be an outlaw
and an antagonist

to the public interest
held captive
by those to whom
the world ows 
every moment more

"stupid vulgar greedy
ugly American deathsucker"

or whoever to whom there's 
not enough money in the world

even if there already was more money
than the total value of things you can buy.

And no, I am not sad
that I have such a little part
in the money game

I'd be happy not to play at all

It's just that all that is sold
is sold for something

that is not even real.

Navigating whaleroads

To think that we are like this
as free as we are to think

and that we have something to think of
-- specific bodies

and not anything out of thin air

That there is a course
all things took
to be here now

and are always
going again

somewhere, never nowhere.

That it is you and me
-- our celestial bodies

in the context
of this concurrent
constellation

-- not unlike migrating birds

navigating whaleroads
of what purpose there could be
besides filling a blank empty space,

take part in time
even if it is
open at the end,

open to something more
even after everything,

just like we are open to otherness,
even if it is beyond the limits

of an individual self.

Darkness

I don't think
I have ever confused
light with love
    although it cuts
    through the darkness

For it's merciless,
scorching and hard
    as it strips us
    of our dreams

But for what I have seen
there is the same 
bottomless blackness
in pupils dialated by love
as in the night sky
without stars.

Our Labor of Love

(illustration: Theodor Kittelsen)

Our Labor of Love

must be zero profit so

I pm the post mortem

post-modern PM

On the nO now

       I said nothing

and watched them carry

the careless corpse

away

and a way opened

for us to Love

the Children

of Time

because the C.T. scan

never said nothing

it must have been

always there

like freedom,

not liberated from

responsibility

but from Received Pronunciation

Yes, the word is viral

and sheer poetry,

like justice

that by not caring

you can't save

the heart

you think you

don't have

from the pain you inflict

without giving a fuck

you always fuck yourself

by this law

some call karma

pointless armament

adds to the dada of it

why rock back and forth,

when you can go somewhere

like the primitives who almost

left no trace

nor waste

as they found

their way

out?

Why lock and load

in conflicts of old,

that could have been squared

then just as much as now?

It can't have been all sold

from under us and that's it.

Our Labor of Love

will never be slavery.

beyond what stillness there can be

Still, like naught, I can be, 
at times when I reconcile
the entropic forces
that draw chaos
from what ever center I claim
in this moving terrain

that escapes every statement
I ever made,
the multiplicity
that undermines my singularity.

Still, but for only a moment,
and then I have to let go again
and merge
with this 
that sweeps me away,
pulls my feet and roots
from the trembling ground

and sends me off
to fly above the ruins
and crashing tides,
the cities and castles,
that could not be fortified
against the constant change
that is the opposite
of being still.

Yet sometimes I can reach through
and feel the harmony
beyond time and place,
the stillness
of what it is to stop.

What comes after postmodernism or Nihilism 0.2

Nihilism as a result of the `fall of meaning´, ingredulity toward all narratives including the master narratives like capitalism, the logic of which as much produced this post-modern impasse as it produced the conditions post-modern philosophy tries to describe, leaves us with nothing to believe in. No absolute values, no ideals, no perfection or completion.
But even the most frantic nihilist can't reach the absolute zero of nothing as by definition nothing isn't anywhere or anything. It is nowhere, and the nihilist, being somebody, by definition, a being, an object, can't escape this beingness in the world nor the conditions of it. The body is somewhere, a perspective, albeit focused on nothing, and can't but return again and again to the physical world as the mind fails to sustain the abstract nothingness against the ever insistent physical context.

There's always, of course, the final solution to being, which is to end the physical perspective, kill the body. In a way, suicide, then, would be the logical conclusion to nihilist thought, but suicide itself is a physical act against the self as an object. And as such it is more a refusal than affirmation as it can ever only affirm nothing. Maybe it can be seen as a refusal to accept the totality of being in favor of nothing, and thus can be seen as a kind of re-instatement of free will against the oppressive cacophony of a an absurd world.

Maybe also as a sign of weakness, but as such sensible, if it is the letting out of being nothing can save anymore. A way out of the pain of being. But it is an act of undoing something that is, and as such calls for something that is as close as being unnatural as something of the natural world can be. It calls for an immense excersision of strength the realization of which can also revive the will itself to realize its own power. A victory of the mind over body.

With enough pain, physical inability and trauma, or just an overwhelming comprehension of the nothing that is left, this victory would then lead to the ending of the self physically. End of story. But if this state of comprehension is reached not in haste and panic desperate for total relief, whatever ability there remains is freed from the restraints which are heretofore limited by the might of the will that can refer to nothing at all times, and be as free as on the moment of the acceptance of this nothingness, unbeing as a solution.

You may have horrible crimes on your conscience, or you may have suffered devastating injustices that weigh you down as equally as if you would have commited these crimes done on to you, but as you close in on this nothingness, and are aware of it enough to pay attention to its implications, the history that determined your weight and contextualized your crimes have also become just stories the meaning of which is just plain nothing. And you have become weightless as a result. What is done is done, and there's more to come.

If you can live with the implications of this cosmic nothingness as the ultimate context you are free to create yourself from what remains, from the perspective that remains, that is, if you did not do away with it. And the implications: Imagine being conscious of this nothingness, but without the body: There would simply be nothing to animate with this consciousness, no point in time, no sense of place, no point of reference what so ever, what would that be like?

Would you be like a spirit in the vacuum, like god, if you will, inhabit nothingness, be there in contextual nowhere, always already enclosed within yourself perfect and complete? Or is it that you disappeared like a flame blown out, and there is nothing left? Same thing, nothing, but the logic of which is that if you have nowhere to go, nothing but relief to expect, this is your destination. Leave the self and the body behind as finite constructs as they were and always already just fractions of the potential the zero holds within itself.

But as said before, you don't have to kill yourself to discover this, you just have to let go of everything you are holding, everything that is holding you back and let yourself be hollowed out by nothingness, and when you are done, open your eyes again to discover the diachronistic majesty that is the infinite potential of the zero, the horror of it and the miracle of it, that the world is really there and always more than what we can understand.

(So, what just happened? – Nothing. What does it mean? – Everything. 

What is the sense in that? – As implied, being itself is enclosed by nothing, limited by nothing but itself, free to re-create and re-invent itself at all times from what is there despite the great cosmic nothing. As individuations divided from the zero, as fragments free to disperse and dissolve we can also add up to something, be something that we already are potentially, and by that, I mean, responsible of what we make of what is there every time we open our eyes. Despite all of our disbelief and faith in nothing, things become statistically true, if they persist, like the world itself, that was still there even after you merged with nothing. Your body, like the bodies of others, are as real as the world, the body of which is all we have, all we can study, all there is to limit us from what we can be at worst and all that we can work with to do our best. )

Everything is not necessary

The nowhere existing unconscious not-being is necessarily inexistent -- absolutely nothing. Only in relation to this un-being it is meaningful to talk about everything. This is how that which doesn't exist becomes a necessary foundation to the existence of that which is, because this is how also that which exists becomes absolute, but not necessary, because only that which doesn't exist can't be stopped from not being.
Even when something is, the nothing isn't. The fact that there is something that exists doesn't change this, whatever that something is. The nothing is real therefore everything can be without limits. This is fundamentally true: The absolute difference between that which exists, and that which doesn't is immediate and absolute. That which is, is not nothing, it is something, therefore, it is the corpus we can study, what we have, because that which isn't can't be studied. Still, the nothing, as everything else, can be thought of, and it can be understood. Actually, it is even easy, if not the easiest thing, because, as a fundamental binary opposite to everything, it is the most simple thing we can talk about with this abstract language of ours tha,t thus allows us to talk about something abstract that doesn't exist as a referent.

Everything is infinite, because outside of it there is only nothing, a nowhere. This hardly consitutes a limit, as it categorically doesn't exist.

Wherever we look, we see something, and for one, we can maybe see space, a distance between things, that lends us something to refer to when we talk about this nothing, like when we talk about darkness as lack of light, the space where something can be, but is not there, not necessarily. That abstract emptiness will hover there pregnant with possibility, without limitations of time and open to more dimensions than what we can think of. There everything is possible, but not necessary.

Of course, it is not so simple when we think of this nothing as a quantum nothingness (one that can be compared to, contrasted to a metaphysical nothing because a quantum state is something that can be imagined not being, but still something), or begin from the dimensionality of the zero. But, all the more, the zero is also a dimension, and as such it, is also a quantum state, and that fundamental dimension is the non-limit that defines everything as limitless also in terms of physics.

We can say that everything thus relates to nothingness, but what do we then  really mean? Perhaps it means that whatever we think, doesn't have to be exactly as we think it is, because nothing is limited to our perception of it. Or maybe it is just something that our abstract language allows, that thus creates this illusion that the nothing has features, when we in fact, we should be talking about non-features. Just as when we talk about the zero dimension, we in fact relate that to the dimensions that are possible because of this nothing. But we can't assume that we know anything about the existing dimensions based on this nothing, because it doesn't predicate anything, it just allows them the possibility, in fact, infinite potential.

We can picture the absolute binary of everything and nothing, and have this singularity of being as opposed to nothing, and contrasted to this nothing, everything becomes singular. Does it then mean that everything is singular? Or does it also mean that, as there thus can be one thing, there can be a second thing, and that, in relation to the first and nothing, it also means that there could be a third, the nothing being always an open possibility, and presents thus a factor that adds infinite potential to everything?

Rendering everything infinitiely complex and thus infinitely relative, like the axis of zero around itself, a paradox of infinite potential, this nihil is a non binding statement, but as such a statement that makes all crimes not necessary, the will free, and our responsibility full. What we make of things is limited by nothing, therefore we are not excused by any fundamental necessity. Yes, it is, thus, a hard line that draws this zero, that holds all light and conceals it, leaving us no right and wrong, but relative preferences to define ethics by our own relations, leaving us to be defined by our own free will or lack thereof, a lack that is just as passive as the zero, and thus allows everything as a limit equal to nothing.

Like choosing to be at the zero state, a non being particle, and thus not even individual. As it is not necessary to be, and your body, however limited, has that option, but that in relation to everything your body allows you. In fact, it is not that being is without meaning because it is relative, but that it is meaningful, because it is as relative as your body. Meaning itself is derived from relations, from context. You could say or do whatever or nothing the next moment, thus making the statement that you have no limits, but if it was truly random , it could be anything, that is so closely related to being nothing, and always an option, but that is equally always a resignation. You resign what you could be in these conditions where it is possible for what you are to be something, and not anything.

Paradoxically, this unnecessity, leaves us, in deed, with the question `to be or not to be?´ and we get to choose every moment according to what we want to be within this context that gives us meaning as opposed to nothing. The context within which we are real by our relativity, the blessed limit between what we are in relation to the infinite potential of imagination that is so close to nothing, because there everything is possible, and where, without a body, a perspective, we would lose ourselves becoming at one with the infinity that opens from nothing. What we are as humans, our relation to the world, and to each other, these makes us something.The nothing does not need to be proven by an act of whim, as if nothing matters, because it does.
 

That it is all disjointed

Do sigh, draw breath

we are not in a hurry

always

Take time to reach the end

you can't fast forward anything

as nonsense

all is message

every noise that startled you

is as much there as everything else

and the words refer to this,

the same underlying context

the meaning of which

has no outside

other than that abstract

nothing

we can all equally imagine

and everything else

is for us as fragmented

as our perception.

So I love

And why I came here, this far?
Separated from you 
--and I miss you so much --
What was it
that gave me this
determination
before I could choose?

-- so painfully severed --

Like I wanted to be born
to just be left alone,
as if a child would refuse
being picked up to loving arms.

-- I would not resist when you touch me ---

Why am I bleeding,
why you have wounds?
Can I just give up
and let you eat me?
Would I then feel the love

-- I need it so much,
is that why I can't have it? --

So I love these scavengers,
pitch black ravens,
wolves at leisure,
-- maybe I can sleep
with a grizzly-bear
until the spring and ferocious
hunger --

the bottom feeders that come to me
when I dive all the way down

in the black water,
peat bog darkness,

like ancient ghosts
pickled in acids
waiting to be reborn
in stead of being
like sacks 
of mummified leather
holding brittle'd fibers
inside

too rigid to caress

I swear, they come to lick
my tears with tongues like tiger's

and in return I tattoo my name
on their lips
with infernal black ink,
my blood and marrow,
it is not decadent to swallow,
and wash down with ash-water

after we burned it all
and have nothing else left
but a scarred heart
and a freely squirming spine

ready to twist
as much as it takes
to do what needs to be done
for another day,

another life
in a future
that will remain
like tomorrow,
not yet here

but patiently waiting
the passing of these moments
and our duty to survive
to be passed on

under the same stars,
here, where talk of the devil
blends with the dust

moved with the wind
that grinds every crust
to the same shreds
that never stop moving.

Or do you have a passion
to stop it moving?
And if so, why is that?

Who are you, then, 
for that?

Why would you want to stop moving
-- so that the wind could take you?

Sad beyond reason
to refuse like that
and resist all but entropy.

Oh, shiver and flake
off and out
casually with the bites of time.

Sent that wish
to have at least been
against merciless odds
for a moment defiant


but sure to give up,
let go and release
the remains
back to the world.

(Even the body was never mine.)

black flag

a flag is an exclamation,

a banner for a manifestation

under which we stand

to manifest

nihil imperat

but out of necessity

we adapt

like water

as set by nature

it runs

and we write

with water

died black

with the pigments

of ink

so that our words

would stay on paper

stating our story
(not his nor her)

sinking to the past,

slightly slower than castles in the sand,

but we are here by an equal right

to construct at will,

each our own,

human together

like our consciousness,

a collective

and it is as by heart

as it is rational

that we come to common cause

from nihil,

pudenda origo,

for those who thought that

going towards god is going as far from the world

and its organic body as possible

and into the abstract dream at the end of history,

well, our flag proclaims freedom from you,

and it is black, because you said white

is supreme.

(c. another great pic by Asta Kaluževičiūtė)

Vox Clamantis In Deserto

How important it is to know you are not alone? I can tell you: very. In the solitude you slowly shed your humanity, I know this, become an animal ready to run at sight of those apex predator beasts that you just alienated yourself from. The willful exile, they call it, the punishment for being the insolent that trespassed, yes, and stumbled on some things that touched you somewhere so deep you'd rather forget such stigma, hold on to your purity and innocence rather than integrity, because everyone you touch with this black acid will tell you, you did this to yourself. If not already contaminated by original sin, you can't just say you were innocent to begin with. Well, they also say you must suffer to be an artist... "Art, Camus claims, is not owned by the privileged, and a literature that encompasses everyone is a stronger art. `In the face of so much suffering, if art insists on being a luxury, it will also be a lie,´ he said. He continued that `if there is any man who has no right to solitude, it is the artist. Art cannot be a monologue… Art advances between two chasms, which are frivolity and propaganda.´ Towards the end, Camus noted that `all greatness, after all, is rooted in risk. The time of irresponsible artists is over.´ In a line that has stayed with me, Camus cuts to the core of what great art must aim for, regardless of its author or ken: `[t]he aim of art… is not to legislate or to reign supreme, but rather to understand first of all.´ Art does not seek to dictate the rigid laws of a society; instead, it must seek to try to capture something true about the world it conjures up. Camus goes on to condemn art crafted purely out of hate. We must do the opposite of hatred, which, as I said after Trump’s election, is not love, but empathy, understanding." (This is from an outstanding literary essay by Gabrielle Bellot: On Danticat, Camus, and the Art of Exile)

Yeah, it is not a fucking luxury to write yourself a sentence that condemns you to an absurd isolation you can't talk about without sounding fucking crazy. Yes, maybe a bit tongue in cheek, biting it to forget the pain you are about to inflict on yourself as you describe the way to reach the absurd desert integrity will lead you if you don't fucking submit... It is fucking selfish, you understand, to ask for the poison that ends it, now hand it to me, I want nobody to follow, I don't want to map this pain, to continue the melodrama of a drunken lunatic howling, the vox clamantis in deserto. And just like that the circle is closed, the ascension led back to where you started; the hysterical animal at the mercy of nature.

Maybe you learned something, you became an altered animal, one with a sense of self, of trajectory, a purpose as long as you can live with the pain, and don't succumb to fear knowing that the dangers are real out there in the open and you go naked.

(Pic by Asta Kaluževičiūtė)