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04 October, 2011

noticing cracks in the egg


Its about sound
Its about hard fast sound
About riding pumping, colliding, thumping, humping
Going down, all the way through and out into the unknown
Its about finding another place, that is as real as life, as this voice, or is it a dream, a program
We keep waking up or returning too it… to what do we identify, fiction touches on the insane in its most lucid form, as pulp fiction and high art… it gets hard to tell when you start to look at it
We don't want to look at it, but we find ourselves staring upon it everyday, even seeking it out, collecting it, having it, as if it signifies, gives us power, souls on shelves, housed and harness, available, inhuman lovers

We were sent on a mission, by Control, Control, what is control, we must return to the works of Burroughs, seek out what he noticed, what he caught a glimpse of, Hussurl, Husserl, we know that he was onto something, but also, physical,  meta-physical, mutiphysical, immanent river of dreams, an evil river, of magical thinking… what happened? Have we gone mad? There and back again, we find our answer, but were we really looking while seeking, we could not see what was as we say what we wanted of it… were we ever sane in our reason, in our rationalities? Do we hide or imbibe in the horror? Unspeakable… not because we don't want to, but because it stops the brain, it short-circuits the mind, shatters our world, it makes it impossible, then difficult to think (straight) again, at all, stalling, faltering, stammering, it makes one have to Think, to think a thought beyond the awareness of being trapped in a body, trapped as a body? Even if such a small utterance of sense… fragments, fragments is all we get, out... And to dissociate, we need to be, no exit, but shifting, we wondered what weird would be going on, yes, we wondered. Sneaking suspicion, we were simply deluded, full of wordy shit, rhetorical and empty upon close inspection. But there is never time for that, rabbling on is all that matters, keep going, even while asking why? Why? We know no answer to satisfy, why not? And if so, then what? What if we are asking the wrong questions… or just another reason to like Deleuze, we see it clearly, but look at the comfort, as we start to envision an image, an old painting of the prince of philosophy, and Deleuze in his well worn derby hat.