Monday, June 1, 2009

This is the Title

Alert by a discrete odour... attention tuning in, awake. Mesh of material and arms and legs and hair, unkempt. Stiffness, a twist, a turn. Arch back, strengthening posture, body impulses faster to food materials. Water cooling hot veins, evaporation, transpiration. But unpleasant pressure does pit toward the back pocket. I discharge and the water viscosity slashed by my three-dimensional, longitudinal, elasto-plastic material. This transmitting gives an involuntary pleasure, a temporal unidentified experience. It does influence my emotional brain.

To cut up: mish mash, topsy turvy, upside down, skin on the inside sort of thing. From dams and plants and fashion and brains and jazz, I wake up, eat and take a shit. I shit through words and words shit through me. I feel s’s curves in my sphincter softly sliding slippery sideways sensually; t forces its tentacles through, tenuously tearing tight tissues towards torture. “Hearing and smelling are not strictly affairs of the ear or nose; they are affairs of the whole body, or interplay of the senses” (Geurts, 2005: 169). Words are not simply for my eyes or for my ears, but for my taste to digest and for me to feel inside my body.

I approach the frozen concrete ground under the 3D quadrilateral with its smooth parallel sides. I dispensed and the period of desert drought ends as water flow come in quantities, a pleasure volcano. A single nerve cell climbing a slope of excitation as water tilts into descent on eyes and nostrils and cheeks and lips and earlobes- all red. A single nerve cell gives evidence of the stimulation in its own characteristic ways. The touch of temperature is highly sensitive to arm hair which responds- moving in attention in any of several directions in heightened stimulation... I am in the tropics in a double-breasted coat... I am on narcotics...

I am showering. My ecstasy comes through the subtle tingle of goose bumps and my strain to select words appropriate. The cut up cuts me up in cubes, collapsing and reforming in a tower towards that elusive synonym. That elusive synonym which is gone and now and coming.
“When is now? Now is the time of ‘mine,’ the time when I am I, the time when ‘there is’ for me: when being, my being is an issue for me... it is always now, for me. And yet, this now never fully arrives, nor was it ever fully, always already and always not yet, always now.” (Russon,2004: 13)
At first I crawl towards sense. My sight and taste and touch and smell and hearing crave denoted connotations and connoted denotations. I am not a dual mind and body. I am a body-mind a mind-body. The schism of enlightenment zips together, wires entangled. Pheelmynomenology.

Growth of welts on my epidermis- it’s not early now, the flow ends down the drain. My raised ribs in a stretch material. Bicycle chain straps have durability but no convenience. They razor pockets in my arms. If I had worn it longer ripped skin would have to be held together with safety pins. More skin would be sewn over in patches. Buttons and fly fronts and seams are not a foundation for dependency but a foundation for stress. T-shirts and bell-bottomed jeans and dresses with a wrinkle and a ruffle is how I am outfitted and the blues are quickly shed, leaving nothing but a scar. Safe from desiccation. Fashion is bending behaviour. The angle of my gaze is clothes in a halo, encouraging visual pleasure of colour and shape and simultaneously is filtering tangibly greater sensations of texture.

I can’t deny my wants. Running a finger down the right way of velvet is smoothly sensual and pushing reverse shivers me timbers. I could dive and bathe in a sea of fur, soft and buttery against my cheeks and thighs but allergies persist. No regrets petting a ball of kitten though I drown and splutter in mucus and phlegm. She’s holding the scales, blind, weighing one feel against the other. “In touching, touching is forbidden: Do not touch or tamper with the thing itself, do not touch on what there is to touch” (Derrida, 2005: 66). Where’s the justice? Down with punishment for feeling feeling!

Motion to the road, I gaze alertly at the jazz performer. He is improvising, no stigma, no record, all adaptations. This is no straightforward, traditional language. The pickpocket con men drug addicts loose in space, dam the state control. Exploration of the time-space continuum, the dynamic matrix up-turned. This cat’s piano blues balance in my massless mind, no linear function. An unquestionably aphrodisiac of this hard-to-define state is sliding motion; a dancer. We are linked in an assembly that form a loose circuit, reptiles and humans rough-and-tumble cabarets. Peripheral aura resembles a role play, a limitless sequence of performed movements, an epileptic seizure. Feeding on music, twist faster, subtle accent developed a landscape of 1950’s New Orleans.

The busker brushes strokes of silence into notes of intention. The music plays cat and mouse with my insides, fanciful beats beat me into attention. Sound and movement are forever intertwined. This wordless melody moulds my emotion, passion engorged. I know not what he means, but I feel it landing, a second body inside mine, a second skin that was always there but silent. “We invent with our bodies, and by doing so reinvent our bodies... our bodies are the kind that are always in question, transition, are always work in progress” (Connor, 2002: 5). I give him a dollar but to him I owe my soul. I move beyond meaning into knowing without thinking.

Leaves show a surprisingly wide range of forms. Some leaves are ephemeral, season on season. They are shed and hibernate on concrete. Green into yellow into red. A curved root elongated toward the centre of the earth. Trees and shrubs would only feel... they have no cerebral cortex, no spinal cord. Ch ch ch chk chk caa chk chk chk chk. Shh uhhsh mooowwoh. Uhh hoowoaarr ttrrikk. Mlooggoorashhh.

I confess being only tree in mind is not my intention. I am not denying thought as important, without thought I do not know that what my fingers are typing are words, or letters, or look good, or sound good. But mental and physical are intertwined, they grow together, I deem false that “the class of mental-realm entities and the class of physical-realm entities do not overlap” (Foster 1991: 8). Dualists make a “direct identification with universal and necessary rational truths that are not dependant on any bodily conditions” (Russon, 2004: 115). All my truths depend on my body, right now I am too hot, sweating and my thoughts are sluggish. Slow brain and slow arms.

Humans work in a very idiosyncratic way encouraging specific objectives and one-way schemes. This may be practical but based on a law that governs pain, pleasure, fear, docility, anger, affection. Rebellion is commercialised mechanical gimmicks. Take off my handcuffs. Animals respond indiscriminately in exchange with habitat, a smell-brain, a visual-brain, a touch-brain. Sensory stimuli are not distractions but are orientation and force. I am one sensory system. Attention.

I dig the feel of swearing. The harshness of fuck, its relief- heavenly. A monkey may sit around high on caterpillar constantly. I may not. A monkey has need not for clothes. Humans have modesty. A breast must not be exposed. Riddled with contradiction, I want luxurious cloths and nudity but shouldn’t have either. I should be content with convention. Contest this contention. I’m venting.

Long attracted Jasper, a dancer. Dubious phalaris, genera and species. Vascular basal scar, vascular bundle girder. Limbic cerebellum elongated from that cortex. Permeability discrete and finite. Slip. Slip. Slip. Slip. Slip. Slip. Slip. Slip. Slip. Sssssslip. Bawdy clam bake gut bucket boogie woogie. Bizarre shabbier razor blades and gaudy black leather. Bawdy gaudy gut bucket boogie woogie. Gaze on my halo and neural circuitry. Parietal babble tattle jaser. Persists with some precision possible Mississippi punk. Isoparametric association excitation. Multilaminate models that can count for elaborate joints. Dynamic my analysis and my three-dimensional, longitudinal, elasto-plastic material. Dorsiventrally composed, system is shown, midrib tissues meristem xeromorphs.

I’ve sunk through sense meaning and emerged out of sense sensation. Such syllables subsequently sound superb side-by-side. I read out loud words I enjoy and smile. Elongate each phrase into a rhythmic foxtrot. Left foot, right foot, left brain, right brain. I‘ve know forever that I dig alliteration, the feeling came before I even knew what it was named. It’s used in some poetry, why? It serves no semiotic purpose but it can sound and feel good. The right words together tighten up my musical heart strings. Such writing cannot go planned or edited. If it feels right it writes itself. It pops. It puffs. It smokes and smoulders. It’s on fire.

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