DEATH'S DOORS: ORIGINAL FAMILIES, PROPER PRIVACIES, AND MENTAL STATES
and
RED THE NILE, BLUE THE HILLS
and the poetry book
ONE POEM FORWARD, TWO POEMS BACK
have been published this November by Blue Orange Publishing.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
spake the paper buddha
WoooEeee!
Let’s face it. What you do is fictionalize your own memory to impact on people. Yes you do sunshine. The fictionalising is for your sake and so too is most of the impacting under the guise, sometimes, of instructing and inspiring. Yes sure, but sometimes of loving or of seducing. Sometimes even of getting even or getting compensation- especially for life and death. Sometimes to rob and kill. Or getting a feeling of a safe middle place between contradictions. Or perhaps just innocently adjusting your projected personality and upgrading your culture for material benefit.
Those that can’t or don’t or won’t do this can be frequently defined by institutions as being nutsy outsiders and treated accordingly. You are warned potato head!
But with writing it gets spookier than that. First of all the memory is already a fiction written by your personality as a justification. Secondly the memory is twisted and distorted by desires and dreams as those in turn are turned around by the memories. Third, there is the clamour of all that culture outside yourself with its structures, official and collective images and either effusions and meshed filters or volcanic impingements and determiners smashing into your process of fictionalising. That is spooky isn’t it?
Spookiest of all is that as you make a fiction you find that all the narratives, not just your own but everyone’s and everything’s, are untrue and moreover that something else is trying to get out. This is dissonant and different. Do you let it? If you don’t it isn’t writing. It is the leisure industry or college, dream manufacture or propaganda in advance of some awkward unnatural act- when the point is that dreaming must end. It is always ending actually.
Wake up snot chomper!
There is a sleeping amnesia that governs every age. That is culture. With it the judges forget they were criminals. The rich forget their poverty. The smart forget their stupidity. It masquerades as sanity but it is in fact very unwell.
Its narratives seduce the desiring. The unfinished. You.
With it institutions take on characteristics of the unbalanced.
What is before your senses disappears constantly. What you remember is forgotten.
And (he then spake an aside)…..
Aside: America you have used weapons of mass destruction on your own people. You have shot your own dissidents. You are violent and have crossed borders with evil intent. This is what you have created your focussed, self referencing, gibbering projected and officially only acceptable culture to forget. This is your autism. It isn’t true autism like mine or yours. Autism in an individual is a way to cope- in an institution it is a stance- a danger to us all.
We won’t waste our lives in your nightmares.
And then he said: Piss off!
Let’s face it. What you do is fictionalize your own memory to impact on people. Yes you do sunshine. The fictionalising is for your sake and so too is most of the impacting under the guise, sometimes, of instructing and inspiring. Yes sure, but sometimes of loving or of seducing. Sometimes even of getting even or getting compensation- especially for life and death. Sometimes to rob and kill. Or getting a feeling of a safe middle place between contradictions. Or perhaps just innocently adjusting your projected personality and upgrading your culture for material benefit.
Those that can’t or don’t or won’t do this can be frequently defined by institutions as being nutsy outsiders and treated accordingly. You are warned potato head!
But with writing it gets spookier than that. First of all the memory is already a fiction written by your personality as a justification. Secondly the memory is twisted and distorted by desires and dreams as those in turn are turned around by the memories. Third, there is the clamour of all that culture outside yourself with its structures, official and collective images and either effusions and meshed filters or volcanic impingements and determiners smashing into your process of fictionalising. That is spooky isn’t it?
Spookiest of all is that as you make a fiction you find that all the narratives, not just your own but everyone’s and everything’s, are untrue and moreover that something else is trying to get out. This is dissonant and different. Do you let it? If you don’t it isn’t writing. It is the leisure industry or college, dream manufacture or propaganda in advance of some awkward unnatural act- when the point is that dreaming must end. It is always ending actually.
Wake up snot chomper!
There is a sleeping amnesia that governs every age. That is culture. With it the judges forget they were criminals. The rich forget their poverty. The smart forget their stupidity. It masquerades as sanity but it is in fact very unwell.
Its narratives seduce the desiring. The unfinished. You.
With it institutions take on characteristics of the unbalanced.
What is before your senses disappears constantly. What you remember is forgotten.
And (he then spake an aside)…..
Aside: America you have used weapons of mass destruction on your own people. You have shot your own dissidents. You are violent and have crossed borders with evil intent. This is what you have created your focussed, self referencing, gibbering projected and officially only acceptable culture to forget. This is your autism. It isn’t true autism like mine or yours. Autism in an individual is a way to cope- in an institution it is a stance- a danger to us all.
We won’t waste our lives in your nightmares.
And then he said: Piss off!
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
why am i interested? i wonder how stuff happens
The notion is that there is a kind of spiritual truth which is intuitive and authentic. The people who insist on facts are either tippy-toeing around this or are a kind of prurient hypocrite of imagination nudging and winking at the obvious resonances. Afraid to speak.
A good example is Sigismondo Malatesta who stirred up the renaissance in every way he could. First he was the world’s best and first anti-hero loser. He was a hired gun who lost most of his battles but came out ok through pragmatic deals with the enemy and breathtaking treason. The next is that he marketed himself with simple symbol (the plant trampling elephant), pop poetry and celebrity deed (saying he would strangle the Pope). He got good press being called sodomist, raper of nuns, traitor bastard (true but removed by papal decree) and sacrilegious joker (ink in the Papal font).
He symbolically brought to Italy from a lost battle the bones of a man, an arch neo Platonist and actual unknowing ideologue of the renaissance so in a stroke thereby connecting Greek Classicism through Byzantium to himself. He gets therein to be called first Renaissance man. This is followed up by art patronage and building really good forts.
He made a temple to his love for Isotta, a new kind of worshipful lust, confirming rumours he murdered two wives to deify the accepted illicit. He filled the temple, converted from a boring church to Saint Francis, with astrology and mystery. The daughter of one of the murdered wives is well known to have started the genuine symbology of the Tarot making arch mysteries out of a renaissance combination of core Mediterranean divine parapsychology and her own family dysfunction: Isotta, the high priestess, Il Papa, the excommunicator and Sigismondo the only person ever made the bishop of hell by papal decree, hanging upside down, not Christ but something else. The person of Sigismondo inspired the dollar sign, initial entwined with Isotta’s and modern anarchism as the negation of the negation.
The fall of Byzantium and the rise of anarchistic trade prepared all this for him, the Venetian imperialism, the City State. The residue of the gods sprang to life through the church which failed to see divine porno in the mannerist art. His profession, condittori and poet made him able. The model was created for every land developer and stock broker since.
There is also Ellen of Aquitaine, who claimed she was reborn and would be reborn, who created a slinky language by commission to justify her power gained as if by high magic through inevitable but cunning marriage which melted the similar poles of the world, the French monarchy and English, married all her neighbours in fact to save the house using the poetry of troubadours and the imagery of Eos to soften minds hardened by the Monks among resentful but bemused peasants and gobsmacked courtiers. Where did she come from? Aquitaine of course and the science of the Nunnery passed on by a hundred unwed mothers, daughters of murdered wives and the Tarot. She was the founder of reading clubs, the troubadour court.
Pound didn’t say any of this. But Fox Channel would if it could. Instead now we have Barbara Bush and Rumsfeld as most spiritual truth has been left to the banal to celebrate.
Every version of the world is prepared first by poetry. Then the miraculous story takes place and long afterward it is understood again when the dead return to life.
A good example is Sigismondo Malatesta who stirred up the renaissance in every way he could. First he was the world’s best and first anti-hero loser. He was a hired gun who lost most of his battles but came out ok through pragmatic deals with the enemy and breathtaking treason. The next is that he marketed himself with simple symbol (the plant trampling elephant), pop poetry and celebrity deed (saying he would strangle the Pope). He got good press being called sodomist, raper of nuns, traitor bastard (true but removed by papal decree) and sacrilegious joker (ink in the Papal font).
He symbolically brought to Italy from a lost battle the bones of a man, an arch neo Platonist and actual unknowing ideologue of the renaissance so in a stroke thereby connecting Greek Classicism through Byzantium to himself. He gets therein to be called first Renaissance man. This is followed up by art patronage and building really good forts.
He made a temple to his love for Isotta, a new kind of worshipful lust, confirming rumours he murdered two wives to deify the accepted illicit. He filled the temple, converted from a boring church to Saint Francis, with astrology and mystery. The daughter of one of the murdered wives is well known to have started the genuine symbology of the Tarot making arch mysteries out of a renaissance combination of core Mediterranean divine parapsychology and her own family dysfunction: Isotta, the high priestess, Il Papa, the excommunicator and Sigismondo the only person ever made the bishop of hell by papal decree, hanging upside down, not Christ but something else. The person of Sigismondo inspired the dollar sign, initial entwined with Isotta’s and modern anarchism as the negation of the negation.
The fall of Byzantium and the rise of anarchistic trade prepared all this for him, the Venetian imperialism, the City State. The residue of the gods sprang to life through the church which failed to see divine porno in the mannerist art. His profession, condittori and poet made him able. The model was created for every land developer and stock broker since.
There is also Ellen of Aquitaine, who claimed she was reborn and would be reborn, who created a slinky language by commission to justify her power gained as if by high magic through inevitable but cunning marriage which melted the similar poles of the world, the French monarchy and English, married all her neighbours in fact to save the house using the poetry of troubadours and the imagery of Eos to soften minds hardened by the Monks among resentful but bemused peasants and gobsmacked courtiers. Where did she come from? Aquitaine of course and the science of the Nunnery passed on by a hundred unwed mothers, daughters of murdered wives and the Tarot. She was the founder of reading clubs, the troubadour court.
Pound didn’t say any of this. But Fox Channel would if it could. Instead now we have Barbara Bush and Rumsfeld as most spiritual truth has been left to the banal to celebrate.
Every version of the world is prepared first by poetry. Then the miraculous story takes place and long afterward it is understood again when the dead return to life.
sunny day
You said my last notes were cynical. You said you don’t think Soviet Russia was a last stage of Feudalism or that Chinese society presently is. You don’t think fascism was a revolution while the Beatles were not.
Nope.
Technology was never a revolution nor was some great big idea. In itself neither sort of thing has even changed governance. They may have provided entry of some sections of people into political and cultural classes but they haven’t changed either structures of relationships to resources or ruling narratives. They certainly haven’t created new types of people only new strata among the old ones. But fundamental change? Never. New ways of bonking and new ways of killing are not revolutions.
You are entranced by the seduction of the narrative.
But the real thing to look at is the spectrums of the narratives. Where does it lead you? Narratives of origin, significance and place contend without ceasing. They do so especially ferociously in language but also everywhere there is any symbol and any harnessing of spirit by institutions. Narratives contend so without let up in every form. The dominant one in any place is called truth or history or good. The others are literature, art, lies nonsense and madness.
Narratives are not revolutions but they are certainly creations.
Humans are subjective. They require subjectivity to cope and sustain. The subjective goes with having only five senses and a mind. Stones don’t need it. Subjectivity controls information, gives ground for alliance and provides common weal. Even when being objective a human is subjective. The human is subjective within family, within even tribe but usually in some civic or institutional interest maybe a nation maybe a stratum. They are ra-ra and ga-ga for their narrative. Gets them through the day. Gets ‘em a job. The images and stories of that object, their own story-thing fight to overcome all contenders and give more place and structural alignment to sustenance, to empower, to collectivise. To avoid death of self. So they make stuff up. Or rather they make something out of chaos. Depends who is winning and who is fighting.
Who is dying who is dead.
Do you suspect history is a lie? That something else really happened and is lurking there? For example that thousands were starved to death in American governed prisoner of war camps in WW2. Or that the Islamic insurgents killed on the border were actually Assyrian tribal wedding attendees. Was Richard the Lionheart a useless French philandering killer-bitch and his poor brother John only trying to hold things together and pay the rent? Did your father really fight in the war? Was Karl Marx arrested for drunkenness in Clerkenwell? Are Democrats anti-democratic, are Communists anti-communists and Republicans for Monarchy?
Depends.
Do the workers get paid more than their labour is worth in some places? Is money irrelevant but access to debt the determining factor in society? Was Mother Theresa an abuser and scam stealing from the dead? Is there any true statistic for nutritionally related murders in America?
Tell the truth.
Can you hear the most gibbering flawed robots repeating endlessly that they should be followed to freedom? Do you hear the most self-interested whining of their immortal sacrifice? Do you hear thieves screaming of what they are owed? Do you see obsessive routine called imagination?
In the darkness of night.
Do you suspect that modernity is going backward? That the march towards reason and peace turned around at some point to stumble backwards through banality to barbarism and apocalypse? Do you see that in politics and art? Do you hear it in news casts? Strange, you may say. I remember when the world was governed on the basis of a secular principle to ensure fair play and discover and develop objective analysis.
Didn’t Iraq have democratic parties and a constitution with international treaties? Wasn’t the Caliphate a centre of modernisation? How did it become a dark age? Weren’t civilian casualties at one time counted? Didn’t witnesses tell the truth so help them God? Or is all history like this?
Here is the coffee. Sunny Day. (Think I’ll read Richard Rathwell’s Death’s Doors.)
Nope.
Technology was never a revolution nor was some great big idea. In itself neither sort of thing has even changed governance. They may have provided entry of some sections of people into political and cultural classes but they haven’t changed either structures of relationships to resources or ruling narratives. They certainly haven’t created new types of people only new strata among the old ones. But fundamental change? Never. New ways of bonking and new ways of killing are not revolutions.
You are entranced by the seduction of the narrative.
But the real thing to look at is the spectrums of the narratives. Where does it lead you? Narratives of origin, significance and place contend without ceasing. They do so especially ferociously in language but also everywhere there is any symbol and any harnessing of spirit by institutions. Narratives contend so without let up in every form. The dominant one in any place is called truth or history or good. The others are literature, art, lies nonsense and madness.
Narratives are not revolutions but they are certainly creations.
Humans are subjective. They require subjectivity to cope and sustain. The subjective goes with having only five senses and a mind. Stones don’t need it. Subjectivity controls information, gives ground for alliance and provides common weal. Even when being objective a human is subjective. The human is subjective within family, within even tribe but usually in some civic or institutional interest maybe a nation maybe a stratum. They are ra-ra and ga-ga for their narrative. Gets them through the day. Gets ‘em a job. The images and stories of that object, their own story-thing fight to overcome all contenders and give more place and structural alignment to sustenance, to empower, to collectivise. To avoid death of self. So they make stuff up. Or rather they make something out of chaos. Depends who is winning and who is fighting.
Who is dying who is dead.
Do you suspect history is a lie? That something else really happened and is lurking there? For example that thousands were starved to death in American governed prisoner of war camps in WW2. Or that the Islamic insurgents killed on the border were actually Assyrian tribal wedding attendees. Was Richard the Lionheart a useless French philandering killer-bitch and his poor brother John only trying to hold things together and pay the rent? Did your father really fight in the war? Was Karl Marx arrested for drunkenness in Clerkenwell? Are Democrats anti-democratic, are Communists anti-communists and Republicans for Monarchy?
Depends.
Do the workers get paid more than their labour is worth in some places? Is money irrelevant but access to debt the determining factor in society? Was Mother Theresa an abuser and scam stealing from the dead? Is there any true statistic for nutritionally related murders in America?
Tell the truth.
Can you hear the most gibbering flawed robots repeating endlessly that they should be followed to freedom? Do you hear the most self-interested whining of their immortal sacrifice? Do you hear thieves screaming of what they are owed? Do you see obsessive routine called imagination?
In the darkness of night.
Do you suspect that modernity is going backward? That the march towards reason and peace turned around at some point to stumble backwards through banality to barbarism and apocalypse? Do you see that in politics and art? Do you hear it in news casts? Strange, you may say. I remember when the world was governed on the basis of a secular principle to ensure fair play and discover and develop objective analysis.
Didn’t Iraq have democratic parties and a constitution with international treaties? Wasn’t the Caliphate a centre of modernisation? How did it become a dark age? Weren’t civilian casualties at one time counted? Didn’t witnesses tell the truth so help them God? Or is all history like this?
Here is the coffee. Sunny Day. (Think I’ll read Richard Rathwell’s Death’s Doors.)
idiots can make revolutions
A revolution is a completely new dispensation. It involves the replacement of one ruling political class with another. More importantly it involves a restructuring of the control of resources.
The political class overthrown is not necessarily homogonous. It is more likely that it is a spectrum of interests and presentations but the whole spectrum has one essential purpose but can have completely opposing interests. It can, for example, be there to dominate a national economy but be within itself competing between sectors for determination of that policy, say for guaranteed investment and special state protection.
The conditions for revolutionary change are made of iron. First, the ruling group must be so divided, weakened and discredited that it cannot rule. Second there must be economic conditions that lead large sections of the population to the conclusion that they cannot sustain themselves with the present dispensation, third, the power of official institutions must be withering in certain geographic, institutional and cultural areas. Fourth, there must exist an alternative force that seems sufficiently disciplined and creditable to declare an alternative which has contacts in key institutions. Fifth, a majority of people must believe in a simple universal policy formula if only for a short period of time.
A revolution can never happen because a population suddenly believes in some nuanced system of ideas that an elite has propagated or either in the infallibility of an exceptional individual. Remember, revolutions may not be initiated initially by a mass but they succeed because of mass participation. The mass, believing revolution to be in their interest, is crucial if only to remain passive. Usually people in large and key institutions as the army and media acting in a complementary way are actually the decisive element.
If a significant part of the population adopts support for an idea or an individual this is not political change or economic change. It is a cultural change that will result only in cultural movement in the old system as sale of DVDs and records or increases in donations. Nothing takes place that is revolutionary unless the conditions described above exist. Anyone claiming any other thing is a charlatan. Revolutions don’t happen by thinking and chanting.
The revolutionaries may not even have good ideas. In fact they may be idiots and what they actually do to reorganise society may have no resemblance to what they said they would do. They may actually act in some bold but completely ridiculous theatrical way.
What happens after a revolution is that the preparations that went on before it to change the spectrum of forces and ideas no longer have validity. That is another objective of revolution, an end to idealism. There is afterwards a new spectrum and new validities. Institutions are reworked and culture is redone. Institutions are made to control resources and prevent alienation of power from groups. They are not made to reflect spiritual truths or natural law. A revolution is the reworking of the structure of culture as well as politics and economics often as violently enforced stupidities. These will have support if for the mass the issue of sustainability is settled.
Revolutions are the fast-forward or rewinds of history. They are not a talk show or a rock concert. They are not a university seminar. Revolutions are the violent replacement of one group of vile, exploitative idiots by a group of unformed amateurs in conditions of chaos. The chaos may be triggered by environmental collapse, war, epidemic or divine wind but it is managed by people and it is people who try to benefit from it.
The political class overthrown is not necessarily homogonous. It is more likely that it is a spectrum of interests and presentations but the whole spectrum has one essential purpose but can have completely opposing interests. It can, for example, be there to dominate a national economy but be within itself competing between sectors for determination of that policy, say for guaranteed investment and special state protection.
The conditions for revolutionary change are made of iron. First, the ruling group must be so divided, weakened and discredited that it cannot rule. Second there must be economic conditions that lead large sections of the population to the conclusion that they cannot sustain themselves with the present dispensation, third, the power of official institutions must be withering in certain geographic, institutional and cultural areas. Fourth, there must exist an alternative force that seems sufficiently disciplined and creditable to declare an alternative which has contacts in key institutions. Fifth, a majority of people must believe in a simple universal policy formula if only for a short period of time.
A revolution can never happen because a population suddenly believes in some nuanced system of ideas that an elite has propagated or either in the infallibility of an exceptional individual. Remember, revolutions may not be initiated initially by a mass but they succeed because of mass participation. The mass, believing revolution to be in their interest, is crucial if only to remain passive. Usually people in large and key institutions as the army and media acting in a complementary way are actually the decisive element.
If a significant part of the population adopts support for an idea or an individual this is not political change or economic change. It is a cultural change that will result only in cultural movement in the old system as sale of DVDs and records or increases in donations. Nothing takes place that is revolutionary unless the conditions described above exist. Anyone claiming any other thing is a charlatan. Revolutions don’t happen by thinking and chanting.
The revolutionaries may not even have good ideas. In fact they may be idiots and what they actually do to reorganise society may have no resemblance to what they said they would do. They may actually act in some bold but completely ridiculous theatrical way.
What happens after a revolution is that the preparations that went on before it to change the spectrum of forces and ideas no longer have validity. That is another objective of revolution, an end to idealism. There is afterwards a new spectrum and new validities. Institutions are reworked and culture is redone. Institutions are made to control resources and prevent alienation of power from groups. They are not made to reflect spiritual truths or natural law. A revolution is the reworking of the structure of culture as well as politics and economics often as violently enforced stupidities. These will have support if for the mass the issue of sustainability is settled.
Revolutions are the fast-forward or rewinds of history. They are not a talk show or a rock concert. They are not a university seminar. Revolutions are the violent replacement of one group of vile, exploitative idiots by a group of unformed amateurs in conditions of chaos. The chaos may be triggered by environmental collapse, war, epidemic or divine wind but it is managed by people and it is people who try to benefit from it.
my name is tim
My Name Is Tim.
My name is Tim. I have Aspergers syndrome. I am an Aspergers.
Now before we go further let me explain that Asperger's Syndrome is not a disease any more than CleverDick syndrome is or CuteBunny Syndrome or CompleteWanker syndrome is. It is rather a way of life based on a way of perceiving. Oh yes, it can be diagnosed. But so can bloodymindedness.
Lots of doctors have made an industry from Aspergers. Good for them. But it won’t ever fit into a doctor’s template. You can tell this by what they say. They say it is on a spectrum. Do you know what is on a spectrum to an Aspergers? Two prisms and a rainbow.
Aspergers people know who other Aspergers people are. In fact other Aspergers are the only ones we remember clearly. The only ones we appreciate in our own way. Like the appreciation of cats.
Some analysts have gone through literature and history to see if they could determine who high-end Aspergers was. Yeats is one named, Malcolm Lowry another, perhaps Da Vinci. But also Adolph and complete species of Homo erectus.
I am high end Aspergers. I got this way not only because of my brain chemistry, DNA and the peculiar way my neural insulation allows bolts of connections. I got this way because they gave me an IQ test twice. First time I was sixty. Second time one hundred and eighty five. Between the two tests I had figured out the rules.
How is an Aspergers? First of all if you are not Asperger’s let me tell you. I can follow your thinking before you do. And I find it annoying mainly because you connect all wrong. Some say we have no imagination, no language, and no memory. I can remember your youth when your mind changed. I remember it from seeing you the first time. I get joy from the idle movement of a horse in a field of snow. I see the images in a how a bomb unfolds in the desert.
Aspergers in Love: I see only my love as through a tunnel, a tunnel to only one reflection at the back of a room. Aspergers as a friend: I hunt down every hidden brother and the few sisters with magic. I offer stringed stars and sounds in a row. Aspergers at work: I will wire the ideas perfectly so the project grows like a rogue wave from the sea floor.
Aspergers who talk and write, or dance and sing, or for that matter do anything do not do it for the scholars and relatives who will attend their funeral. They don’t like leisure consumers. They love to play with the shifting eye in the flung mind.
When Aspergers rule the world, hey! And they will dear thing: There will be no correct line. Every movement will be a dissonance resolved of the basic part uniting all the chaos for that moment. The Holy Days will change. This year for falling water. Next year for words beginning with Dis.
*******
Tim Too
This is Tim too and the other thing about Aspergers.
You Buzzies! We call you that for you are those whirring, bloated obvious things.
You bore and bother complaining of dead minds of frozen concrete but that is real and you did it wrong. There is sense in every detail. I won’t answer flakes of snow.
Not that dissolving gas while images break through air cut with clean steel knives and hang still.
You are on both sides of your nose while I feel one hundred and seven small stones under frozen water near the green fountain of brass grapes webbed in sparkling wires.
I want no cure.
Buzzy romantics are always incurable
Buzzy condolences always go out
Buzzy country is always living- what is the sense in that?
While dawn feathered flames slice the pond
And wet night in cold clear morning means sponge snow, cheese under glass.
Spider like your mom brain kept in touch
Not now
And I won’t answer either.
My name is Tim. I have Aspergers syndrome. I am an Aspergers.
Now before we go further let me explain that Asperger's Syndrome is not a disease any more than CleverDick syndrome is or CuteBunny Syndrome or CompleteWanker syndrome is. It is rather a way of life based on a way of perceiving. Oh yes, it can be diagnosed. But so can bloodymindedness.
Lots of doctors have made an industry from Aspergers. Good for them. But it won’t ever fit into a doctor’s template. You can tell this by what they say. They say it is on a spectrum. Do you know what is on a spectrum to an Aspergers? Two prisms and a rainbow.
Aspergers people know who other Aspergers people are. In fact other Aspergers are the only ones we remember clearly. The only ones we appreciate in our own way. Like the appreciation of cats.
Some analysts have gone through literature and history to see if they could determine who high-end Aspergers was. Yeats is one named, Malcolm Lowry another, perhaps Da Vinci. But also Adolph and complete species of Homo erectus.
I am high end Aspergers. I got this way not only because of my brain chemistry, DNA and the peculiar way my neural insulation allows bolts of connections. I got this way because they gave me an IQ test twice. First time I was sixty. Second time one hundred and eighty five. Between the two tests I had figured out the rules.
How is an Aspergers? First of all if you are not Asperger’s let me tell you. I can follow your thinking before you do. And I find it annoying mainly because you connect all wrong. Some say we have no imagination, no language, and no memory. I can remember your youth when your mind changed. I remember it from seeing you the first time. I get joy from the idle movement of a horse in a field of snow. I see the images in a how a bomb unfolds in the desert.
Aspergers in Love: I see only my love as through a tunnel, a tunnel to only one reflection at the back of a room. Aspergers as a friend: I hunt down every hidden brother and the few sisters with magic. I offer stringed stars and sounds in a row. Aspergers at work: I will wire the ideas perfectly so the project grows like a rogue wave from the sea floor.
Aspergers who talk and write, or dance and sing, or for that matter do anything do not do it for the scholars and relatives who will attend their funeral. They don’t like leisure consumers. They love to play with the shifting eye in the flung mind.
When Aspergers rule the world, hey! And they will dear thing: There will be no correct line. Every movement will be a dissonance resolved of the basic part uniting all the chaos for that moment. The Holy Days will change. This year for falling water. Next year for words beginning with Dis.
*******
Tim Too
This is Tim too and the other thing about Aspergers.
You Buzzies! We call you that for you are those whirring, bloated obvious things.
You bore and bother complaining of dead minds of frozen concrete but that is real and you did it wrong. There is sense in every detail. I won’t answer flakes of snow.
Not that dissolving gas while images break through air cut with clean steel knives and hang still.
You are on both sides of your nose while I feel one hundred and seven small stones under frozen water near the green fountain of brass grapes webbed in sparkling wires.
I want no cure.
Buzzy romantics are always incurable
Buzzy condolences always go out
Buzzy country is always living- what is the sense in that?
While dawn feathered flames slice the pond
And wet night in cold clear morning means sponge snow, cheese under glass.
Spider like your mom brain kept in touch
Not now
And I won’t answer either.
Monday, November 14, 2005
oppose memoirism to the death!
There is a great evil threatening our civilisation and that is memoirism. The memoirists are the enemy of truth, imagination, intellect and above all memory. Memory frees. There are getting to be more and more.
Some one ought to do something about them.
Everything in life fails and that is its beauty. Everything fails, that is, except for the spirit to live. For the memoirist there is no failure and there is no spirit. There is only the absolute uniqueness of their ordinary self illuminated to death by their infinite, visionary common sense.
How is the memoirist formed? He is formed by failure taken badly, especially by that experienced in the cradle. It is not that wonderful mixture of fruity foolishness and ruthless boiling and crushing that makes life’s liquor for the memoirist. What makes sense only is that life itself that has failed the memoirist. It has failed to recognize the absolute value in their particular banality and the sparkle of their own ordinary experience. The memoirist began the writing of memoirs at the time he began to speak and momma didn’t listen. His mission was confirmed when some fool did. The determination intensified when that fool turned away.
Poetry, ha! A dead art says the memoirist. I gave it up myself in college. Radical change? Nonsense, says the memoirist. I have never changed and look where I am today. Why should anyone else bother? And I’ve been proven right haven’t I? You should have listened. If you didn’t I will tell you again.
The memoirist doesn’t want anyone to actually be anything in particular. Anything that is that is not a consumer and admirer of his memoirism. Are you Moslem, ha! We had a few in my home town and they behaved properly let me tell you. They behaved like my friends. Let me tell you about Mohammed, no better yet, I’ll tell you about our blacks. Were you tortured by desert bandits who only stopped because the sheep they were cooking caught fire? Ha. I cook mutton at home all the time and it never catches fire. Is he a painter? Ha. What an idiot. Everyone watches tv. A radical? Ha, I wouldn’t waste my time on that! We don’t do things like that around here.
The giants I knew, says the memoirist, are elevated by my familiarity.
The places I have been are monuments since defiled.
The memoirist often says ‘everybody knows’ where nobody knows but he then goes on to make clear that only he knows and if you are saying the same thing he knew first.
The memoirist recommends his failures to everyone as understandable, excusable ultimately glorious and necessary successes. But they shouldn’t try it. It wouldn’t be the same.
The memoirist is the enemy of ego. No-one should have one. They should organise their self on the basis of his memoirs. As for superego, forget it. No need. And if anyone wants to do a few riffs with narcisstic personality disorder, forget that too. That has already been taken. There is only one allowed at a time.
What do you call two memoirists? A historical époque.
A memoirist as a leader initiates a hunt for dissidents, especially those who saw those real mistakes made in real time with perspective.
A memoirist as a lover says ‘there you go again’ and becomes the horned beast.
Do you have a memoirist inside yourself? Ask yourself this: when was life perfect? Or to say the same thing another way, when did it stop and lose a dimension? Or when did my martyrdom begin? When was my memory thwarted? When am I not believed!
Ask yourself, what was the original sin? No really, the real one. Was it the one done to you? What are the real commandments? Thou shalt not err in human ways against my mind? Who were the real myths? Forget Olympus. Was it those you believe you bested? Where is paradise? Is it where you believe you rule? Where the smell of your sanctified thought dominates?
Some bloody café where the five customers know your name? Some ill-attended meeting with one speaker?
The memoirist achieves immortality. And he does this without much suffering. The rest of us achieve death by accepting dismemberment.
How is the immortality of the memoirist assured? Through the reduction of creation and the diminishing of the laws of the universe. By the avoidance of irony, story and song.
There are other words for memoirist. It can be pragmatist, citizen, comrade, professor, even just a clever guy.
But Memoirism is a ferocious journey backward into the night. The memoirist is actually that creature before human thought comes. It is the voice of the dying DNA.
That creature remains the same throughout evolution. It is hairy and stupid. Its purpose is to induce flight so it can flee. Its defence is projectile memoirs. It growls, it farts, it shoots ink, it stinks and hurls from its cage dead bits of self.
Do you know a memoirist? Is there one in your neighbourhood? Someone ought to do something.
Some one ought to do something about them.
Everything in life fails and that is its beauty. Everything fails, that is, except for the spirit to live. For the memoirist there is no failure and there is no spirit. There is only the absolute uniqueness of their ordinary self illuminated to death by their infinite, visionary common sense.
How is the memoirist formed? He is formed by failure taken badly, especially by that experienced in the cradle. It is not that wonderful mixture of fruity foolishness and ruthless boiling and crushing that makes life’s liquor for the memoirist. What makes sense only is that life itself that has failed the memoirist. It has failed to recognize the absolute value in their particular banality and the sparkle of their own ordinary experience. The memoirist began the writing of memoirs at the time he began to speak and momma didn’t listen. His mission was confirmed when some fool did. The determination intensified when that fool turned away.
Poetry, ha! A dead art says the memoirist. I gave it up myself in college. Radical change? Nonsense, says the memoirist. I have never changed and look where I am today. Why should anyone else bother? And I’ve been proven right haven’t I? You should have listened. If you didn’t I will tell you again.
The memoirist doesn’t want anyone to actually be anything in particular. Anything that is that is not a consumer and admirer of his memoirism. Are you Moslem, ha! We had a few in my home town and they behaved properly let me tell you. They behaved like my friends. Let me tell you about Mohammed, no better yet, I’ll tell you about our blacks. Were you tortured by desert bandits who only stopped because the sheep they were cooking caught fire? Ha. I cook mutton at home all the time and it never catches fire. Is he a painter? Ha. What an idiot. Everyone watches tv. A radical? Ha, I wouldn’t waste my time on that! We don’t do things like that around here.
The giants I knew, says the memoirist, are elevated by my familiarity.
The places I have been are monuments since defiled.
The memoirist often says ‘everybody knows’ where nobody knows but he then goes on to make clear that only he knows and if you are saying the same thing he knew first.
The memoirist recommends his failures to everyone as understandable, excusable ultimately glorious and necessary successes. But they shouldn’t try it. It wouldn’t be the same.
The memoirist is the enemy of ego. No-one should have one. They should organise their self on the basis of his memoirs. As for superego, forget it. No need. And if anyone wants to do a few riffs with narcisstic personality disorder, forget that too. That has already been taken. There is only one allowed at a time.
What do you call two memoirists? A historical époque.
A memoirist as a leader initiates a hunt for dissidents, especially those who saw those real mistakes made in real time with perspective.
A memoirist as a lover says ‘there you go again’ and becomes the horned beast.
Do you have a memoirist inside yourself? Ask yourself this: when was life perfect? Or to say the same thing another way, when did it stop and lose a dimension? Or when did my martyrdom begin? When was my memory thwarted? When am I not believed!
Ask yourself, what was the original sin? No really, the real one. Was it the one done to you? What are the real commandments? Thou shalt not err in human ways against my mind? Who were the real myths? Forget Olympus. Was it those you believe you bested? Where is paradise? Is it where you believe you rule? Where the smell of your sanctified thought dominates?
Some bloody café where the five customers know your name? Some ill-attended meeting with one speaker?
The memoirist achieves immortality. And he does this without much suffering. The rest of us achieve death by accepting dismemberment.
How is the immortality of the memoirist assured? Through the reduction of creation and the diminishing of the laws of the universe. By the avoidance of irony, story and song.
There are other words for memoirist. It can be pragmatist, citizen, comrade, professor, even just a clever guy.
But Memoirism is a ferocious journey backward into the night. The memoirist is actually that creature before human thought comes. It is the voice of the dying DNA.
That creature remains the same throughout evolution. It is hairy and stupid. Its purpose is to induce flight so it can flee. Its defence is projectile memoirs. It growls, it farts, it shoots ink, it stinks and hurls from its cage dead bits of self.
Do you know a memoirist? Is there one in your neighbourhood? Someone ought to do something.
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