a flight of objects that seemed real [Excerpts]
By Lital Khaikin.
But this is the fault.
“We sacrificed paradise in order to think.”
this might have been a thought on Flusser.
“No firm ground”
this might have been a certainty.
The black box is a record of events. Concealing an interior, a constellation of memory spits out the [hallucinogenic] depository into material objects. A bundling of information, mode of control. Klossowski’s dissimulation of signs and sign-values. Lyotard discusses Klossowski’s amnesia and Baphomet: “memory is the domain (of the creator), mine is my self forgetting in those are reborn in me.” vs. Thomas Mann’s devil in Doctor Faustus, “time is not my realm.” The immolation of Baphomet. The correctness of memory. The singular. caixa preta ‘corpo’. Black box body. The art of genetics – geste – memory stored in the body – colour trauma buried into cells. The phantasm collector.
Communication, cartas, карта – a qualification of space. Western tradition tries to rationalise the universe according to Aristotelian logic. Alphabet writing. Flusser’s Judaic interpretation – alphanumeric code of the universe. God in the letters. The idea of an original sin – a breaking into parts – a fragmentation. Pi. Lingua. Sprache. Presupposing speech. Sprehen. What is a language that is silent?
Silence is a new requirement.
It was the first [crisis]. At first there was word. Falar. To Speak. So this must be that rhythmic resistance. “Free gesture against any and every structure.” Linearity. “We need a Socrates of the phone network.” The writer as text editor, or singing pirate. I’m constantly being given language, and it gets to a point that I forget where it comes from. “The champagne, not the bottles, is important.” How class carries into metaphor.
“Mathematics works with a different code than writing.” Mathematics and its similarity to music. The divine and the devil.
“I love what I do. There were bullets flying, children in the houses. Luckily none of them were hit. If you are a middleman not adding value, you deserve to be killed. The LAPD covers me. There are chess players who partner with AI, and they call them centaurs.”
Erfahren, that brusque way of vocalising experience – [ex] out of, nomadism, circularity, “storm around the world in eighty days” – is “to overcome the dark essence of nature”.
The learned men are obsessed with orientations on the lifeless Object – who better to ask than the objectified? “they no longer count as objects … but solely as information.” Fetish as information. Cunt as information. Femininity as information. Artifacts of the New Technocracy. Pirates of gendered commodification – selling bit words that may have been feelings that may have been waste. The entropy of materials. The permeability of everything. Plastic may be friendly. A conversation at midnight in a grey-blue corner-store about two particles at a distance turning red simultaneously. Transparency, as discussed by Rowe and Slutzy – a literal transparency, a spatial transparency. A spatial translation of the gestures in chess and Go. Chess is precise – a narrowing. Go, abstract – a spatial transformation and expansion. Larger possibility of movements than knowable particles (how to create a larger space out of a smaller area?). Particles infinitely bound – by their relationships, possibilities, causalities.
Florida soil is burning itself out with fertilisers and phosphate. Fish in Peru eat mosquitoes that transmit viruses. Fish in Florida eat each other. Florida Highwaymen saturating their landscape, heavy with cypress trees. Bleeding colour, elements out of black. Hope is coloured orange, Morocco is on the horizon. Pulling power from the sun. Prophesy the probability of Casablanca sinking into hot peat. Forecast new conflict zones. Exchange rate kicks almost half my earnings into the same pile of phosphate rich excrement [x] proposes. Runoff and plasticised food insurance. The alternative human waste systems of the Occupy generation have been occluded to marginalised permaculture settlements on gratefully acknowledged unceded [insert here] territory. Make shit into electricity. Make shit into gold. The nation state lives. Given the executive decision to terminate use of the word “weaponised” for fear of frightening away the Americans and their money. We need their money for cereal, for the family. Ceded the vocabulary. Remembered the KILLISTE manifesto. The conscience of Paris. Thought long and hard about no-fly lists. Grit my teeth, quickly stopped after remembering the thin line of uninsured transparency that rims my smile.
I want to join the army.
When I joined they gave me 50% off schooling.
For that kind of deal, you can get two educations. Maybe even three.
Just get real good at killing people.
You don’t even have to actually kill people anymore, you just speculatively imagine scenarios, and get real good at pushing some buttons or drawing out some charts on a computer, and where’s the harm in that? You don’t even have to touch anything, really. They probably don’t even want you to touch anything, you just get real good at thinking all kinds of situations.
“Space-time deriving from the material contents of the universe” – a way to process experience. Space created out of black and white stones – the greater out of the lesser (see that thing on Levi Paul Bryant?). An occupation of space, broadening its potential. Flusser’s “Brilliant Pebbles”, what turns out to be a satellite surveillance project codename, earthbound literacy drawing music out of mineral resonance. An adaptation to A432 and the fascist resonance. Incubator cities of [wicked] timbre. Damn it, it sounds better, but the body’s all fucked. Manufactured resistance, replication, sterilised poor-punk. Purchased academpunk. Punkt. Punctum and the necessity to administer NODES OF COMPETENCE.
High-fidelity preservation systems.
Vibrant material representatives of the Neuedemokratische and correct thinking. Warrior scholars, graduates of the fine art of impunity, waging class wars in the hills of Switzerland, on the warm beaches of Malta. Intellectual elite spooning warm oatmeal off of ultramarine tablecloths. The existence of tablecloths, and, sometimes, tables. “Our culture is suffering from ‘circulatory problems’: the waste is backing up.”
Polite languages of avoidance. Antivalues of the experts. Experts in snakehandling. Vires, noli me tangere. Pasty hands that slink and grapple under tables. White-washed Tragodia, a history of “sleepily polite masses”, those hearers and responders. A new ethics for the immovable stone. A hell for every rock, so that there was no distinguishing between animate and inanimate things.
Stones have better ethics than we.
Another man wants to make a mechanical thing that reads all poetry so that yet another man somewhere is saved the trouble of doing so. So that reading is not necessary. Of it, he says, “I hate it.” Take everything out. What remains. Take the existence out of the poem. It remains. You can’t program a poem, because a poem is not just the beautiful or coy or messy or senseless arrangement of words. A poem is not even necessarily words, but you cannot teach that. Can’t teach [soul—find a new better word, for a more radical ontological divestment]. You can’t teach knowing. You can’t touch knowing. But there are many men who write books on knowing. Gens d’armes. And there are many men who touch what they think.
“politics become a synonym of creativity” “If a person is a terrorist…” What else can you refer to. Artwork. Kunstwerk. Obrad de Arte. Inseparable from “work”. Artwork as particle – particular – to attain it – producion. The Western mind is then predisposed to an art that is never “transcendental” – art that is only concerned with human interests, a human language – to create, instead of to “reveal”, to become [naru]. And the ancient myths that saw making, the action, activity – as false. How to “be”, “become”, without “doing”, “making”?
In the multiplicity, all is “actant”. Areia. That is, sand. Multiplicity contained within each particle, bestehend in einer ARIA mit verschiedenen Verænderungen, the optimism of a birthing universe in Beethoven’s variations, Kundera’s twisted dreams and childhood motifs – recurring memories – the diagrammatic walk.
I get in a car in Denmark.
Prozac at the wheel and a flatline down the coast.
Starting price for a good view is two million dollars or the price of a new bicycle.
When the orderly social machine picks up, I’m caught in the drift between time and time. One beginning is only arriving, the nocturnal end is coming to a resolution. Traffic starts to pick up. Punk music is back on the cassette player. Cheap vodka burns on my tongue. A small woman has been wandering the far west hallway of the station, a ghost wrapped in a floral scarf. A tall homeless man sleeps upright against a Reisebank ATM. Beside him, someone’s ass is hanging out of old jeans. A ceiling drips up ahead. 3:50 in the morning. This is the quietest I’ve heard Berlin. Sweeper walks over to the snoring man at the head of the staircase. After giving the two stairs below his feet a thorough sweep, he vigorously brushes the man’s soiled feet. The man lifts a toothless head from his arms, grunts and leaves. I passed the remaining vodka to the saxophonist near the club, as he talked about the origins of the saxophone and the Taiwanese manufacturing of its parts. Each nub was shaped by small fingers somewhere in a damp factory. It’s for the sake of music. Someone has to make it. Can’t have music without the instruments. Instrument dump of art-making. He was carting a bag adorned with stuffed animals. Plenty of company in the cold night. “Sure, to keep warm,” he said, taking a swig then tossing the bottle into the mountain of dirty, coloured felt. Plush cartel. Along with the rusted Taiwanese parts of his saxophone, the manufactured menagerie is covered with at least five different layers of dust, soft powders from the trains, passing cars, white powder, the visionary paste, the shedding days under bridges, the sticky grime of club-nights, where sweat and lonely cum form a vapour that sinks by morning into the plush mountain. The snoring man rests near the top of the staircase. Near-angelic. Retribution in sleep. Oblivion under the golden arches. Almost made it to the top. City of eagles and gravestones. Dirt yard of the rat kings. Piss-stained walkways and amusement parks of tame pop-graffiti. A younger queen shitting bubble-gum paint on crushed glass. Taped down safety zones. Jamaica tells me, “I’m not really from here.” There’s no-one left who’s from here. Forgot how to stay anywhere. Only those who come, bringing a melancholy from Istanbul, draped in Italian opera. The only thing that knows how to stay is the rancid American cologne. Gives me nausea. I keep my jacket on, his sleek polyester glistens with gold and green. Promotional tour banner child. I’ve never felt more dry. “Eintreten?” “Polizei?” Past the doormen, through a throng of freshmen, a fast grind with the DJ, and an even faster disappearance.
A river that screams its hunger out of an ill white foam – a bridge shaking with break – all roads and roofs stretching out in a tattered mat of damp rot – glass that pours over a liquid hope – and endless walls of stone, wet with dream-piss. Never mind that this is the place lost minds are locked for lack of a better use – you can’t kill the mental [state] in a rehabilitation of prodding and injecting and questioning, by which time fear is not real. Galvanise it, that fear. Technics of visibility. Assuming visibility as justifiable blasting. Visible dam from condominium site. Reconciliation through temporary contract employment. Participation in peaceful demarcation of neoliberal colonies, new trajectories, through paycheck pacification. Benefits of greening the economy. Water. Água viva, agua muerta. Río Verde – Gualcarque – Kitchissippi. Mecca is pierced with glass.
Time is a greyzone. Density. Apocalyptic time of penance for Europe. No patience for thinking. A lattice [blurring of margins]. Louveture’s cataclysm of all colours. Our consciousness is darkness. Black is all light.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lital Khaikin has published poetry in .PLINTH., gobbet, Deluge, Berfrois, Tarpaulin Sky, e·ratio and VERStype. A book, Outplace, is forthcoming from Solar Luxuriance.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Thursday, November 3rd, 2016.