postamble of a novel that cant end

in which jude and macedonio achronally chat

under southern heavens

above blakean hells

 

if macedonio wrote a novel that cant begin the doocore writes a novel that cant end, decades ago jude left the big institutions of the day to work with satan in oaxaca but found - as was written in the ancient preamble - that were all locked up, theres no escape, even the wildernesss an institution

 

why is this so? because consciousness is institutional, an infinite confinement, a founding disposition instruction arrangement introduction, a practice an appointment, a jail but one without walls and the jailors us, a cell but a sphere and not just one but many and we can only see the spot we stand on and no matter how much we try or claim to see the many spheres we all stumble back onto the spot we stand and speak from that space and perhaps also the trying and claiming

 

so jude, having gradually migrated from temple bank academe to desert, through the feral penitentiaries of art meeting many mates wardens and selfproclaimed guards, sleeping under the sand like some phyllotis darwini vampire, emerging at night to have tea with the stars ...

 

a question becomes for jude then, a question of spiritual technique if you will or not, of how to replicate spheres, iow how to stand on and within multiple realities simultaneously and, corollarily, how to replicate morph transmute and transport affixes including migrating them from substantives  into freedom cells of themselves

 

consequently the novel that keeps on being written has become complicated by the fact that facts and realities, while still real and factive, now cohabit with extensive parallels inversions combustions vaporizations sublimations and so on and on and the prison judes found most conducive to accepting these complications is the desert - which accepts all in its nothingnesses - and they suspect the desert is their institution and all that blather certain reality people blather about going to the prison of the wilderness to return to the prison of society is just another way of saying - my prisons better than yours ... whereas your prisons yours and mines mine or rather no prison is ours for prisons strangely are beyond possession ... and how could we posit a legitimate hierarchy without not just having lived in all the prisons but in all the spiritmeats that inhabit them, and so we are vain lizards skittering around on the slippery hole of ourselves

 

the desert is a mathematic of reality and could be expressed by the formula 0::∞ where the celled one inhabits the colons - indices functions notations theories operations contractions reductions - between the dreamings of its two weird abutments

 

jude isnt in the desert to free themself of attachment but to experience attachment as an eternal stretching with endlessly shifting horizons, whonyms become as stars (not the silly kind that entertainment and sport and their global family promote) but as aspects of a diverse myriad distant backdrop for wandering, art still occurs but so past itself it loses its name

 

so the inmates journal continues long after oaxacas basement - and the gods and demons of money and the money of demons and gods - for adventures and freaks are as readily available in the atacama as they are in the fatican, on gall street, or at poxford ... in a sense in the desert all the freaks and adventures are here, all we have to do is occasionally clamber out of the sand under full or absent moons and wander around

 

next

::

jude discovers a convent under the iglesia de caspana

postamble in which the nature of archive is challenged and tangentially novel

we shouldn't be here, this isn't a safe space for the present

 

it's about the past

 

things that have been and once were and long buried

 

days of innocence and safety

 

when love could be abstracted from the mud and hung on laundry lines

 

where's a safe space for the present

 

we're about archives here, records preserved as evidence that we existed as something else before the present when we exist as we are or rather as an accumulation of having been that exceeds that having been before, an attempt to reach beyond the present to sign spaces closer to origins

 

but you're not archives, you're patahives, and the affix transmutation effects time into shapes that disquiet past and future

 

that may be but whatever we are or might be accused of, we're not the present

 

the present's all there is

 

that's a philosophical cliche, if anything doesn't exist it's the present - god's far more likely to exist than the present

 

so we all fit, in the patahive everything's an archive

 

the inmate's journal claimed to be written in the past and be about the past but actually it's in the future

 

and we who claim to be in the present don't know where we are

 

but why is time a place to be, that's what patahive's asking

 

can you be late for time

 

as late as for being

 

but it's a pragmatic taxonomic focal and convenient necessity

 

kali's about pooetry, ooQ autobiothanatohagiowapübelography, drdrdrdrdrdrdrdrdr dao and film, jooQ surpassing pawukon, elspet academic lechery, fukky gek poh intervoos and we're about digging up documents from the doopast

 

if we lose our focus the others may repurpose us

 

or worse

 

what's wrong with repurposing or worse

 

they might be listening

 

who

 

the gov

 

why would gov care about any of this

 

gov wants to know everything

 

i don't see at all how this is a postamble to the inmate's journal

 

you just want to be macedonio in a mirror

 

i am macedonio in a mirror

 

gov is in the mirror

 

the only thing not in the mirror's the present

 

we can include anything

 

the inmate's journal has broken free from the cell of definition into the expanse of the postamble

 

we're not archivists

 

we're not archaeologists

 

we're not dredgers of time

 

this is just the bank put through the prism of bankruptcy

 

this is just the church after it's been in the dump until it's turned to rancid pulp

 

this is just the academy brewed until it's sludge

 

this is just the future after it's been fucked

 

these are the records of the desert of the institutions

 

skyscrapers collapsed

 

temple razed

 

lectern crushed

 

time defecated

 

love puked

 

when the institution dies - anarchy

 

once you achieve freedom - the greatest bondage

 

so there are no rules for the thirteen

 

we are a coven of mutability

 

we are witches of whatever

 

we cut off our gonads as the supreme act of love

 

our gonads are reason

 

and love's a disaster

 

the disaster of heaven

 

are there going to be more postambles

 

we amble forever and affixes are just signs that wink

 

no sign like the present

 

no present like an empty box

 

no empty box like a lost ambulance

 

no lost ambulance like a cordial

 

no cordial like absinthe

 

no absinthe like a fond heart

 

this isn't reality anymore though

 

no it's patareality

 

the inmate's journal was the last record of reality

 

and reality like time's no more

 

we go mad like prepositions

 

and are propositioned by the absent

 

by ghosts and logic and the ledgers of the day

 

walk the bridge from here to here

 

we make sandcakes in the atacama desert

 

we perform marriages for scorpions

 

we're demoted through demonscapes of dreams

 

under a sky stuffed with rotten moons

 

how romantic

 

how maudlin

 

how tired

 

how over

 

this is our novel and we can do what we want with it and it's never done

tij postamble in which a donut appears to jude in the atacama desert and they have a conversation with a stray phoenicoparrus andinus

jude, having experienced the apocalypse in advance within themself and not just once but as a continually recreating thing, is struck mentally ill and becomes fey exudes the whiff of death and is shunned by the segmented citizenry retreating into the atacama desert to live on whims and aphids of the wind

 

another starlittered night and our schmucks curled into the sand muttering irrational numbers and mapping the spirits of solomon onto future mutations of time while untaxonomized insects skitter across the wasteland of his genome and in the befallen dreams and visitations great winged eyed breasts galomph across liminal airs and settle on our hermits corpse and from it pull thin long sinews of dewfed meat shrieking all the while of love

 

it has been as hal blood foretold on a most senior executive floor of apotheosized institutionalizing money that as one removes oneself from the ultimate game of exoteric magic and does not adorn oneself with the common compensating sentiments and is too strange to find those little communal niches of the adapting dispossessed sometimes bobbing on the fangsome seas one enters parallel worlds of fallen hallucinations and crumbled spells

 

so jude awakens in the parched night and lo a boston cream donut rises in the north whole unbitten shinining like fresh genitalia entering its fated arc in the godless heavens and approaching its zenith pulsing like unrequited desire its centre bursts and from the egg of its pale yellow goo a stray phoenicoparrus andinus who peeping quacking chuckling descends and snuggling into jude saying says

 

if unreflective folks start businesses fall in love and visit nature on vacations and those burdened with dissettled hearts and minds preoccupy themselves with metathoughts about business love and nature disengaging from normalized society to indulge their preoccupations what then do the patapeople do

 

we ride bicycles and drink absinthe

 

but youre not riding bicycles, youre not drinking absinthe

 

in physics one rides a physical bicycle, in metaphysics one rides bicycles of thought, in pataphysics imaginary bicycles ride you even as you ride them and so with absinthe and so with everything, but what were you doing in a boston cream in the godless heavens

 

mining poaching tourism highways hydrocarbon exploration fragmentation diminished biodiversity possible extinction - i hide where i can

 

as the endangered doo

 

blood is right for blood but patas right for pata

 

blood and pata are both inmates in the same gaol and while bloods a zooid of the warden colonial animal, pata has a continual escape route blood can never access or understand

 

we escape nest and bank, tourist and home

 

we leave the clutter of the exotatic to develop routes for us and others to pilgrim through

 

we hide in donuts and forests, phonemes and disquiets, to avoid the jailors fists

 

we love kind freaks who dont fit

 

we love the round and silent sun

 

thanks for visiting phoenicoparrus andinus

 

lets snuggle a bit first

 

ok