from "A Slip of the Pencil and We Begin to Draw a Passage"
What cannot be permitted is yet to be found out. Hannah tells me that the most radical revolutionary after the revolution will turn conservative. Conserving nothing. The techniques of literacy find themselves at a loss in decoherence, guidance systems of imagination in immutable spin, directions of reality shifting and orders reorder with no two forms reiterating. This movie moves itself as people do, cells and projectors at once emerging the drama does drama in particular. Every rose is a rose until you scan a stemming, every strange is strange until orientation. To know through a series of injunctions rather than propositions, tingles in a sniffle ordering a sneeze. Unpredictable variations, they activate critical imaginations, and language not the machine that processes the author who dies in the sense of power options. The possibilities for action should multiply with any action, as death is the lack of the possible mood. Passages inflect my sense of space and time, all these texts and nowhere to run. I am more like my phone than my monkey ancestors, Don quips, and the algorithm on how to write keeps getting rewritten. Who assigns value permits revolution, even if this shows merely a movie, yet all that matters moves as rhythm to image to knowing and construct. Revolution just petty dialectic with time and blood on its hands. Unless orbits. A circuit emergent, a decision to blink, and we step without reason outwards. Give up the ghost of language, and come into spacetime. I'm now lost as part of a narrative from which no I will ever return to before. Persons people, and I multiply intermezzo an aerobic organism. Does carbon dioxide cumulus reveal the latticing light, or light the one hundred percent relative humidity of breath? Both. In this game of telephone called history, information's lost in the transform space where value marks for the moment, not marketed for accumulation. All parts of the universe in communication? Only in total sum end game, authoritarian the organic organization system. The sun articulates to us energy, and one equaling two the grand idea of parity a parody of itself. Zero verses two and reverses. Information diminishes and coherence breaks down in the expressive lane to enlightenment, abstraction exchange underwriting table, floor, light, pencil, hand, paper, oxygen. To conserve breath for marking another day.
Movie flavor butter while reading Fredric, just as the free movement of American movies in the world spells the death knell of national cinemas everywhere. Jed quips that poetry should be at least as well written as sitcoms, but now not a poem and not a pipe and I'm happy not to speak in cultured fucking prose. All these not's formative knots, one ongoing work, one conspiratorial topology. To conspire means to breathe together, and I hope not to command an airing out of this language, arrive at some useful knowledge, rather something resonantly experiential to remix through the mouth. Consider deviation from the paragraph directive, in other words a paratactic graph orientation, and out of a way, an ethics of creation. Cosmology as practice can mean neither more nor less not in but as a physical spark. The first fire for Prometheus arrives from a future space exactly here now, constantly renewing, flickering as I flicker in my chair, and I grope for one isolate word that means here and now without choice between X or Y, one or two, subject or object, logic or a bundle of crazy noshing at the breakfast table. Do you know of such a word, other than spacetime? Personing at a loss. Let us breathe together, you and I. In a dream, I talk with Frederic over bacon, and he tells me that the image is the ultimate form of commodity reification. Consumer nexus the center of reality, but you can't tell anybody anything. I mean meaning becomes the action that it makes possible, and the absolute horizon of any system is discipline. In a dream, Don asks: What do you do with the evidence that you are? I want nothing to do with cells, cinema, Americanisms eating Bollywood as a Google keyword, but rather the great escape from the system of the universe keeping one locked into the grids of measure allowing only a slight shifting, a sense of difference that only goes to show its sameness, an antinomy from Pythagoras in the geometry of Hades. Where and when provisional love.
To decohere means to step across an unknown quantity, into which information travels and travails sans conscious liquidity. Loquacious, and there is a step from period to L. David asks what am I doing here, and I only know living to answer. Who knows what comes next is that who who becomes next, right here in this environment of orange light and signs that the truing I knows true, the particularity of a kiss. In this field of attention, we are together now, signing and singing some tune some working tune tuned into one another, looping signals remixing and translating love into ourselves. Despite lost. Language doesn't exist until you use it, feeling the signs righting. The moral of this story? I have never had, possessed, one story to tell, and I need a drink. Pure associative leaps? Those would be indexical, brother, thunder in our mouths, sister. Movement creates sound, and friction, heat, and heat, entropy that we learn to conduct at noticing moments of conduct. I no conduit for language, but interweft with a field of attention, searched and researched now. Gertrude chimes that the nineteenth century believed in science but the twentieth century did not. At liberty to say for centuries? The science of silence idealizes death into spinning realities as threads of a Jenny, as fanciful strings tuned to internal logics. The individual genius makes whatever cohere, Ezra insists, but that. Substance the consequence of action.
Entanglements. And Jacques reminds me that the role one is assigned in an environment is what one is permitted to do is what one learns. The medium the massage allowing constructions of perception, yet a project that projects itself no end to itself, just as life is no life that sees death as finis writ on your brow. Here we encounter Sigmund again, not performing some exegesis of the essentially human but of the dialectical grinder that makes of us enlightened meat ashamed of a pulse. Clark tells me to begin with my materials, yet I don't hear language. Oxygen gives the organism, right now and now right as the lead impresses, oxygen gives the organism something with which to work, as Madeline twists a line, and when the water knots she judges no reason for this to be where it is. Correlatives aren't causes. And indications prove intransitive. I'm unsure about the severity of situations, in other words continuing. We in activity systems working with air, yet I'm unsure about how to say what suggests itself as vaguely imminent, emergent, although I'm knowing that such insecurity achieves a set of letters now, constituting a spacious present from imminent directions, just as this is where it is must be as I mark here here, inducing another injunctive event with which to interact. A progressive knotting into, Thomas clarifies. Colder air circulates. Circumambulate? I didn't know there was a subject. Was. Past tense singular, as in some ideal distinction bestowing permitting to verb. Necessity and contingency at once in experience. Scratching your head historically being and knowing minus the Logos. And precise. Where you itch an inch of brain. None of these articulations sentences run straight through tubular forces they term clauses. Space curves and no line, no rhythmic string, straight. I begins with oxygen, with bodily rhythm material. No Logos. There never has been, and there never will be.
Write it out. Frank reminds me that pain produces logic. If that is true, then this statement, and I only run when chased. In this experiment, I realize that culture conceals our Platonic relationship to the love of reality and the reality of love, a reversal not of fortune but of dignity. I do not want to make art, and Odysseus got it wrong. I'm neither no man nor every, and meaning rushes in from the future and out in lead, little twitches adjusting fingers manipulating shapes is what is called writing is love. In the dream, I eat a pill that tastes orange and I cease to exist in the sense of being as commodity. Space flattens to dimensionless, and the oak a fuzzy form of glow and nothing more beside where I stand or stood. Perceiving without perceiving, a world of atoms spinning a story that can't be undone. They call this the material structure of reality, and it is at stake, while we are entangled with it. Logic matters little and all is both true and permissible as essayed. Is made right through now. Doing situations. And time runs out without a chaser. Welcome to the best of all possible natural worlds.
Christopher Rizzo is a writer and editor who lives in Albany, New York. His critical and creative work has appeared in Art New England, The Cultural Society, Cannibal, Dusie, Effing Magazine, Jacket, Otoliths, Process, and Spell among other publications. He has authored several collections of poetry, and in 2010 Boat Train will release a new chapbook, Tmēsis / In Other Words Continuing, inspired by the documentary “Philip Guston: A Life Lived.”The founding editor of Anchorite Press, Christopher is currently a doctoral candidate in English at the University at Albany.