by Maxwell Clark
Ecodeviance:
(Soma)tics for the Future Wilderness
By CA Conrad
Wave Books, 2014
160pp, $22.00
[original painting]
“[…] 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
0.
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
Imperative.
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.
0.0.
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
Lobes—
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
Chordate life-systems.
Death-Trauma cannot forever be suppressed or else
Cancer?
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.
0.0a.
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
Object.
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.
0.0a1.
If rocks don’t dance, how can they be a
Face?
I chuck pebbles into the ocean’s languorous maw;
Observe their many trajectories.
Each of them is a one-way return forward from
The One;
—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?
0.0a1.a.
Dancing is
Bodily intelligence.
C’mon
let’s boogie.
Now
let’s preen.
Now
let’s preen.
Now
let’s boogie,
And
preen,
And
boogie,
And
preen,
And
boogie-preen,
AH!@
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.
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