by Maxwell Clark
The normalization of capitalistic modes of production have heretofore forever been essential to the poesy of state-power over society. "Prior" to when the now cancerously global metastasis of industrial technology calculatively rationalized the everyday behaviors of society -- and precisely unto their representation as the affective (even also unconscious) norms of state governance---prior to this, this ideational mechanization placing society under an (inconsistent) complexus of governmental norms, this arrogation of the voice's ethical wisdom by hand-eye planes of coordination, there is no otherwise more original world "prior" to this except this world itself expressed more and more (((and...))) elementally primal. The pure future of this pre-original normalcy, further, is utterly unforeseeable, or perhaps even "without future" -- as it were, in as the future itself presents an absolute alterity to and apart the present. Insofar as postindustrial modes of technical behavior are already present in society, however, another renovation of state normalcy is perhaps rather discretely culminating even now.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Monday, December 22, 2014
By Maxwell Clark
"Oblivion is not to be hired: The greater part must be content to be as though they had not been, to be found in the Register of God, not in the record of man."
—Sir Thomas Browne
The author is God.
God’s authority expresses the Text of Our World.
Each is of God, is under His or Her divine authority.
Each life is a novel of God’s authorship.
God is the Infinity of Our Finitude, is the Authority of Our Text.
Our Text is of God authored and authorized.
Amen, let it be so, amen.
by Maxwell Clark
Emergency, however, also means the newest face of socio-ontological revelation, or “emergence”. The spectacle is the emergence of our private war into our public conscience. The spectacle is the voice, or voicing, of the social text. Or, contrariwise, it is the spectacle that is the textual transcription of society’s voice. Either case is inconsistent with the spectacle’s truer actuality, of course, insofar as the spectacle both textualizes and vocalizes both textual and vocal aspects of society. Maybe, then, the trick is to see that the voice is a type of text, or texting—whereas the text is more than merely a voice, or its voicing. This, in brusque, is my best acceptation of the undeconstructible privilege of the text.
Friday, December 19, 2014
by Maxwell Clark
Ecodeviance: (Soma)tics for the Future Wilderness
By CA Conrad
Wave Books, 2014
“[…] each several stone,
With wit well blazoned, smiled or made some moan.”
—W. Shakespeare, A Lover’s Complaint
“Underlying the tyranny of convention is the tyranny of nature.”
—S. Cavell, The Claims of Reason
Who responds when you talk to a rock?
Isn’t it then just your own echo? (((As always?)))
Isn’t it then just your own echo? (((As always?)))
Poesy is the condition of all Science.
Capitals dignify, ELEVATE.
THEY even suggest somewhat of an inferiority complex: “LISTEN!!!”
Please hear me when I trace out my most silent speech, especially
When even locking my typographical behaviors into a solely lower-case mode
Is never nearly as quiet enough.
You would never believe the static, the interferences,
The signal loss, the material erasures, in all of the more indirect genres of faciality—
Such like literature, unless
You just heard me name them so for you.
So you're welcome. I would be Socrates
And ask no fee for these my services too.
I am so cute—let’s flirt sometime.
I flirt with unique persons alone.
And such is my sexuated identity: a uniqueness, a unicity.
Thus also a “non-identity” or refusal of the identarian
IDENTITY (is) DEATH.
My most proximate regional science now is Urbanism.
Imagine a non-Marxist social geographer who borrows heavily from
Marx. As too well-read in Marx, thus also no Marxist. This, I further
Believe, is how Marx himself behaved contra his influences,
Consciously and otherwise—he never identified
With even his most glorious heroes,
Never took on their names as his own,
Perhaps as too ruthlessly ambitious and grandiose
To not judge anyone’s ideologies elsewise than his as
Unclean, i.e. to be Denunciated, Abused, Murdered.
Marx, in my abnormally rigorous reading of his addictively
Apocalyptic, and so also Paradise-mongering
Rhodomontadist Rhetorics—of denkverboten (“mind-crime”), and
Its paranoiacally restless exclusivity of micro-herd
Totalizations, or Utopias.
Finitude is the actualization of an infinite grace.
Finitude murders the face of the Other: as the Other is
An ambiguously restless and irrational facing of
The absolute enigma
Of her absence in his presence.
The otherness of a rock
Is that its each aspect is to us
As delineated by our society of language.
Madness is a language of one, is freedom, power.
Psychotic expressions thematically derail often bc.
Of certain characteristic neurological mutations of our
Most novel and delicately abstracted frontal
Schizophrenia is NEURAL EVOLUTION....?
“Yo, fuck y’all—everybody!” —O.D.B. (rip)
Aggressivity and trauma are part of our ancestry as wild
Mammalions and vertebrae and
Death-Trauma cannot forever be suppressed or else
Psychosexual repressions inculcate cancer into sexuated populations?
A loveliest doubiousness to suspend, this.
I believe because belief permits me the non-formal logics necessary
To overcome the psycholinguistic oppression of
Principles of Reality, or “Phenomenological Norms”, aka the
Heavily-Inhibited Perceptiveness of a Banalized Lifeworld.
My teachings emanate from the anarchy of Infinity.
A rock cannot respond to me when I name it,
Unless I also use my hands.
Ambiguity’s terror is such that any critique reflexively criticizes
Itself foremost, in an inescapable conflation of itself with its critical
Learning who someone else is is perfectly impossible,
But the sentences of justice are maximally judicious, never judgmental.
Insert quote from Henry James preface on mannerisms as
The novelistic analogue of methods.
Books of poesy are good if also novels of
Their author’s own protagonism.
A fictional novel is insincere data
Until it is the face of social Authority,
Or reverts into an essentialist speculation upon itself.
Rocks are voodoo dolls, except of friends or lovers,
In the panpsychologistic totalitarianism
Of we earth bones.
If rocks don’t dance, how can they be a
I chuck pebbles into the ocean’s languorous maw;
Observe their many trajectories.
Each of them is a one-way return forward from
—Their late plunking into the seas
Is merely exemplary.
I've never assimilated myself into these rainbow-ostrich territories before.
Science opens the book of Nature
By closing the book of God
—Although as written into a holy canon
Science alone abides—and grows of its own
Fecundity in decomposition.
Geopsychologism is a symptom of deviance, that is,
Of oppositional defiances to a very narrow set of norms
Surrounding the status of inanimate objects
And the claims of ideology on creation.
Creation itself may well be but the retrojection of
An ideation, but the question for this primordial ideation is then
How much it actually believes in itself? Enough to
Uphold the ultramaterial pre-originality of its creation?
C’mon let’s boogie.
Now let’s preen.
Now let’s preen.
Now let’s boogie,
Expressivity as the criterion of intelligence—or eloquence, lucidity.
I cherish no nemesis with my Other.
Infinity is a cruel frailty and a sublime terrorism.
Conditions produce ideas that organize new conditions.
Apocalypse is never now.
The nonsense of measuring infinity
Is somehow responsible for our essential showing forth
As a built environment.
Even animals act civilized when set safely within the bounds of their habitual life.
I am that greater glory of our infinite confederation of nations.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
by Maxwell Clark
CA Conrad recently visited Yale University. I was in attendance for his one free and public reading of the stay—an event opened (I must add) with a most massively illustrious appearance from Stephen Krewson, a promising Flarf poet, as it were, and friend (i.e., creative collaborator) of mine. I also attended [to] the “informal” conversation at a local “gay” bar (said "gay" as such if only because it was a little moreso masculine a space than “queer” would rightly suggest) with CA and Stephen which followed their readings. Stephen’s public presence, I too much protest, on this highly peculiar night was arguably by far the more immediately risible in its slaying irony and, as such, also the more entertaining performance—as his renditions of his (Boolean?) keyword search amalgams were very verily exuded with such a vital smoothness – if not joyous assurance – such as one rarely encounters in everyday slum life (as I experience it in the “9-Square Zoo” surrounding Yale’s campus), much less in the U.S.’s mass media spectacle, etc. and so on – yada yada – if only as it were. CA, almost needless to affirm, nowise failed in any respect to affect himself upon me so very fully in the veritable gorgeousness of his hippy-shamanism (that I so adore)—it was, if only perhaps, simply that he too was too-long lingering in a hypnotic admiration for Krewson’s exceptional and exceptionally new performance just before him that night. But the most urgent and living teachings of CA’s uttermost exuberance (a unique signal of his genius) were not to be expressed to his public audience, per se, but rather to those audience members who privately elected themselves into his coterie by following him to said “gay-bro” bar.
Myself, being at first seated on the opposite end of the bar's long bench where-at CA had already before sat, this bench being also crowded in between each of us two with said private-class self-elects of his reading’s formerly public audience members, I was inspired to undergo an immensely protracted series of discussions with these others (none of whom were CA). Although these chats were mostly stimulating, if not highly civilizing, in character (at least for me), I found that, as more than a few spirited hours of such fizzy discursiveness wore on, the number of "interpolators" seated between myself and CA steadily dwindled back mostly into their dorms and otherwise shared apartments (but excuse if this sounds a wanton or pejorative generalization). At long last, I was able to address CA. And how soon, very wondrously to me, how soon after I had made said address of myself to him (by my name, or “personally”), did he then excavate his most favored “gemstones” (as it were?) from his jacket’s pockets slip-slide out on top of the bench’s most elevated table-area. I, for my part, recall distinctly how I said I thought these "rocks" were “sexy” (especially the sparkly black and oblong one) and that they were “dancing for us tonight”. I also gave him and the remaining others notice of my recent opening of the most archaic but properly novelistic form of textuality I know, Cao Xueqin’s The Story of the Stone, wherein certain mythologically valenced gemstones are already in an opening scene assigned emotions and voices and other such sentient characteristics, etc., etc. Somewhere in all of this I also recalled to voice another (then-also-present) colleagues’ (aka, Kevin Holden’s) exceedingly "panpsychologistic" (i.e., plain-vanilla Idealistic) phrase: “everything is sentient”—which he (Kevin), as I reminisce on hearing him speak his loving bouquets of his cheerfully idealistic poesy once before, I believe attributed to an author (or mythical hero?) of very ancient Greece, likely perhaps a Pythagorean of some relation (although an absolute respect for the sentience of "all things" is more in keeping with our Buddhist inheritances)?
But why am I so attentive to CA’s “rocks” and not his letters on his pages of his books, or at least to describing my memories of his voice, its delivery, etc. —public or otherwise? (His voice is very unique to him—very, quite nasal – even unreally so, almost cartoonish or faux-childlike as such—except also too, too much tragedy-inflected, sometimes thus almost of a “bleating” tone, and so also indeed a somewhat (also very figuratively) “butchered” sonority then—and all of this just before said in its most endearing senses to his venerable reputation alone). Why? Because I am obligated to share with you, even may hap to persuade you, convince you, of how nakedly expressive a gesture was this his sharing of his rocks. He exposed himself to such a palpable extreme when his own "rocks" (as I alone affectionately have dubbed them herein) tumbled and slid and clanked across the metal bench before me—if only each intersubjective face of infinity’s “society” (aka, Creation) were so adamantly sincere and “forthright” and expressive and intimate and trusting and denuded and forward in their respect of me.
And, so, you see: ta-ta for now (“ttfn”).
p.s. CA Conrad loves me, and I love him. Quoth (the entirety of a private email he once sent me):
"I love you Maxwell,
I anxiously pre-apologize to him most of anyone for this "disjointed" anecdote being so brusquely abortive a preemption thusly—
it's just like a way I have
about writing what is written
in my more prosaic
and essayistic texts.