Free Speech or just another virus theory?

Parrhesia & Rhetoric: "The one who uses parrhesia, the parrhesiastes, is someone who says everything he has in mind: he does not hide anything, but opens his heart and mind completely to other people through his discourse....Whereas rhetoric provides the speaker with technical devices to help him prevail upon the minds of his audience (regardless of the rhetorician's own opinion concerning what he says), in parrhesia, the parrhesiastes acts on other people's mind by showing them as directly as possible what he actually believes." – Michel Foucault

Actual parrhesia is probably impossible. A benign tumor from psychoanalysis, cognitive-behavior theory suggests an internal running dialogue and commentary as a river, often lacking any sense of systemetized coherence until we are asleep or otherwise deranged, as Messieurs Poe, Artaud and Burroughs discovered. It is in this "stream of consciousness" or rather at times, raging river which swims the imp of the perverse which might equally invite us to jump in for a refreshing swim with questions like "why not?", or ponder stepping off the cliff and falling into the abyss to our certain doom. No prior psychic motivation need be posited – confusing what's inside for out, only a well-trained slave or one without a rudder would explain "the voices made me do it".

One might notice that outside of euclidean space-time, the inside and out are never confused. It's not even an issue in the figurative or poetic interpretation of verses unless as expressing a hyphenated existence. Perhaps this explains why the literalists enjoin so much conflict, if not massacres. Everything's a fight or equivocation between white-water rafting and bouts of smooth sailing, always for the win or nothing's worth playing.

But never mind the barge hauling garbage that's intruding on the view. The bullshit detector also swims this river. A home to many internal voices, they are both the river and Trickster-transformer canoeing like a hyphenated habitat-inhabitant relation or a bobbling and shifting criteria, with or without a hook, line and sinker. The background noise underneath a barely perceptual tinnitus is the cacophony of aquatic bugs endlessly repeating everything, even the unnoticeable, from within and without the environment – the obsessive repetition of "sense data", thought by some to be accessed hypnotically. Though sometimes we become caught in a knotted line and cannot disentangle, it is usually a silent noise of vortexes in the stream. Their elucidation (or perturbation) can produce poetry, psychoanalytic revelation and straight-jackets, if not an urge to adorn some paisley, if only to present the appearance of an inside-out consistency.

Militant regimentation (or should I say education?) dams this river just to generate power. Not to suggest a necessarily malicious intent, teaching language rather than allowing it to blossom makes it so, and in the same fashion that forced hydroponics reduces nutritive content and chemical fertilizer exchanges nutrient for toxin. Either way, questions do not pass unregulated. The free-ranging salmon must now learn to climb ladders; the others live out their lives in a net. Commentary is restricted to habitual categories, running through flow-pipes (the proper channels) activated by power turbines. Language is seen by the militant politician and social scientist only as mutual dam busting and bubble bursting, slinging shit from the towers of opposing fortresses – an interesting metaphor considering that they're standing hip-deep in shit, calling those who do not take such a "political" stand mindless, brain-dead, zombie or sheep which is to say, unhip. Undemocratic radicals "go against the flow". Revolutionaries think with a big enough dam, the river will reverse direction, but mostly it only shifts its progressive course with even more pent up momentum – a self-fulfilling prophet. Progress is only a euphemism for "no change is tolerated".

Without a snorkel or other means of oxygenation together with a flint for sparking some metabolism, the river becomes a violent water-fall killing all the little fishes on the rocks below. Witness: Neitzshe's "corpses in their mouths" and Orwell's "dead metaphors", chants of the plain speakers in the cult of death demanding (with no uncertain terms) one truth (theirs) or nothing at all. Brain-dead may be a misnomer:

Unless the water's vaporised with laser surgery or the like, with priestly vigil, canals are diverted from cerebral flows to what might have been vocal, down the drain which channels all that's excremental. What's left are gargoyles pissing forth the bloody sacramental. The only sacred face that's left is stone-faced sacrificial, but why choose suicide when you can delegate a proxy with a proclamation sounding not like "offal" but "official"? Now it's agreeable to all, the necessity of strife – if not just economical, frantic means that everything's reduced to matters of death and life, and only a dentist can brighten your smile.

– Teo Castraphoni, dds.

But when you get down to it, isn't the 'word' both an anchor at rest and a fish-hook on the move? Who knows what you'll have snagged when you reel it back into the boat? If you're a frog, you might catch a log, or then again maybe a sea snake. Rather than have it pull you away, the hook and the leader's designed to be expendable.

***

How often do we not know what's on our mind and do not necessarily want to appropriate what's in (or be converted to) another's? If not a motive for reclusion, this might approximate the process of becoming co-mindful, of thoughts (in the sense of ripples or blooms we like to call "names" for "things" as an alternative to what others consider a "stake through the heart" of the matter) unfolding and merging in common dialogue (rather than competitive – aka "economic" – discourse or "political" one-upmanship). Two senses of politeness appear: 1) the trickster-as-optimiser deceives us with honey, disguising the intention to appropriate or proselytise. We may call this "the propagandist art" and is perceived as either parrhesical or rhetorical; 2) The sense of communising/sharing – retaining an openness to make adjustments and coherences, or not as we may see fit – the radical fitness of a well-told story which may live on to be a twice-told tale giving the impression of an improvisational dance against a background of melodic or instrumental harmony and with the proper positioning of fingers and toes, feels somewhat akin to a Vulcan mind meld.

On the other hand, much of reality exists in word only. For example, adorned with the amulet or fetish of christian doves, one might never come to witness the layers of pigeon-shit covering the stack of hay in the barn that is said to amass food for sheep. And for every barn-cat who eats a bird, three are overcome with toxoplasmosis. Christian birds indeed!

Like Mel Brooks' "Standup Philosopher", the secondary trickster is the poet or carrier whose infection eats away at a set of categories (forms) without necessarily systemically infecting with new content, like necroforus (an organism in 'healthy' digestive tracts) on an open wound. It only bores a hole, leaving the newly injured the opportunity to close it or rethink without being put too much on the defensive. "To pick or not to pick it?" is the ultimate question concerning scabs. Bataille might call this an inner war, I'd portray it as finding oneself suddenly naked on a windy day and searching or improvising or being given something with which to cover up, to become comfortable again. The embare-assed politician might say "If that's not a call for carpetbombing the third world, I don't know what is", but not 'til registering in the medical log under Type of Injury: "Denise hurt my feelings". Stoicism or asceticism rarely leads to enlightenment, except to the fact that one finds oneself hungry! As soon as coherence and rigidity set in, bleeding and communication must stop, we've established a picket line, invented the scab and religion! But it's still just a cover-up.

It could be argued that this boring and scabbing is kingly (in the sense of an uninvited "burst bubble"). But come on! Taken literally, where is the authoritarianism with two youngsters sharing a bath and popping bubbles as they emerge from the depths? Did someone mention becoming like unto a child, or is it sufficient to merely like them? If categories are confining or limiting like a pair of shoes two sizes too small, it would lead to mutual (both/and/or) self-liberation (if, that is, one is equipped with a pair of scissors carefully directed away from one's 'I') – with the right question, one bursts one's own bubble but the questioner gets splashed as well. Without another perspective to observe, those bubbles can become ever more rigid, like an iron ball & chain. Try wearing that in novel rivers!

***

The accumulation (mining, optimization), justice, truth, exchange and (social) war paradigms are examples of such rigidity, where, with diminishing breathing room or ever-staling air, a gift is only envisioned in terms of a loss and sharing`a compromise – again, a sacrifice of one's "total" (if commercially procured) desire. For a loosening and relaxing, I'm tempted to use Deleuze' term, "deterritorialize". Another would be "extasis" which busts dams between the self and other like wire-cutters to a barbed-wire fence (one might take care it's not electrified as well).

Such is the brain damage witnessed in the extreme amongst patriot wankers who aspire to see some action as smokey-bear mounties, mercenaries or marines whilst the less successful, though still adequately trained oportunistic vultures scavenge what remains. Then there's the privileged money out protecting woods from riding hoods or any sightings of you know who – those kind of people doctors without borders must prevent from access to their gated neighborhoods.

God's boy, Saint Augustine had issued the memo, "we must have or be monsters to deliver us from evil" and then said the prophet, in keping with fashion, "only from Allah might we seek compassion".

– Atka Mip

What else should we expect when the ability to posit associations or try on other's shoes, from day one's been blocked at inception by churches and schools so the best in their classes (though sometimes there's exceptions) become killers or fools and incompetent asses?

Like any good insult, iconoclasty puts holes in our reifications or pulls up the stake and plants it elsewhere – certainly an ungrammatical impropriety. A word for a field of familiarity or resemblances (and not platonic essences), a leaky form allows ingress and egress of free, mobile content, transforming old into new forms or shrinking them altogether like a bladder out of practice in its holding patterns some would call "incontinence", others "freedom of expression".

All commentaries and questions posed have this destructive/creative potential. We might ask "are rigid bubbles owned, property to be defended?" If so, then linguistics suggests that resistance to infection produces ill-health to language. We would all be brain-dead, infantile (in the way no infant is), incapable of conversation in the first place. It is said a parrot has such a language, lacking entirely in a semantic component (fortunately the parrot is not mono-lingual – the mindless mimic is just a pretense when engaged with polite or civil company). Rhetoric would have no categories with which to impose and criteria would only point to where you've jammed the stick, that is, the datum and that's contingent or provisional to the poker – always a game of chance.

Like sharing a catch from the local fishing hole, meaningful communication guides clostridial visitors (literally, a clue like a tiny star but figuratively, a tiny bug which can lock jaws) to intestinal tracts where they are welcomed, where they are fit, where they can simultaneously self-actualize, thrive and help us process our mostly digested food prior to a free expulsion of excess. In a wound, they can produce a deadly tetanic seizure somewhat resembling the mountain range in Wyoming and as dangerous as a Welsh Druid's cursed poetry. Nurture may be optimizing, but optimization is not always, in fact, in our world, rarely ever nurturing beyond the lowest levels of significance in a statistical distribution (reliable between .01 and .05). Fortunately or not, many clostridial visitors go by completely unnoticed. Like stocking a stream with gmo salmon, rhetoric, debate and propaganda mimic the colonial behavior of systemic tuberculosis (once called "consumption") – slowly, the fishes will consummate you. But recall this infective invective or brain occupation is always called "nurture" by somebody else.

Unless you can produce an appearance of infinity by your disorder, you will have disorder only without magnificence. – Edmund Burke

Time & love's genetic parody

A number is just same-space traversed between points of interest or piles of rubbish, or how many verses you can recite between labour pains, measuring the progressive elimination of space consequenting an explosion or birth or total inversion and after which point pushy dna becomes retrogressively a vestigial tag-along to inertia as encouragement begins to pull.

– Algebra & poetry

If time and space are said, without exception, to covary, and they must, by definition since each is measured, in fact can only be measured by measuring the other (this is the essence of the circular argument which in any other context outside of gravity and mass is discredited), then what do we do with the contradicting stances (or is it "stanzas") that there is a one-way road from a daughter to a mother to a grandmother which cannot be altered or reversed in the generative sense (it is unilinear) and the grandmother (of the future) who was conceived by the infant daughter (of the present) without invoking a property relation in a causal chain where the titles or the names we give to our terms have to undergo a change lest we're caught comparing apples and oranges?

Historical discourse extends the present or compresses time with no effect on space every time it speaks of epochs. By extending the present to include the past and future (up to any limit inclusive of each of the three terms, daughter, mother, grandmother – 'dmg', the acronym of demigods for a basic matrilineal "family"), we can note the "truth" value of both verses (or is it "versions"). In the same way, genes are used to compress time to illustrate a family tree with no regard to intervening spaces. In other words, by compressing reality (or its criteria) and with some extraction, the dmg with its extensions is a single (solid) unit identified by parts or its internal constituents. In this case the compression takes some stretching.

Both expressions are a priori truths (by definition) yet extract and compress all personal experience to construct a reality which from any other view is not only unreal but contradictory, especially when there's marriages connected to an orphan or adoptee, not to mention sampling error and sometimes just mistakes. For certainty, the only thing less fallible than science is religious faith – just ask them! Wait, was that what's known as a complete redundancy? This is why science doesn't like the food upon his plate to touch before he turns it to shit in the mass consumption. Scientific utopias must follow rules of exclusion: "no orphans (flukes and/or mutations) are allowed...we shall erase them". Like medicine and politics, experimental control is incarceration, killing off or otherwise preventing consortation between the subject and any intervening variables. It's what demonstrates the power (or the unconscious wisdom) of a theory. We therefore come to expect the experts to exhibit priestly qualities and therefore need unqualified (susceptible) judges and juries to make the final decisions in lieu of an executive with orders. What's not to trust in this?

What is really said by genetic discourse, and it's easier to follow, is that it's certain genes who reproduce and have families whose descendants travel over time through big bodies which can only travel across space. It's no cluster fuck, it's just a relay race by little bits of property. For identification purposes, these genes have to be theoretically extracted from all their cousins who might happen to, as well, have siblings not just in chimp bodies but mice and shrew-like creatures living back when dinosaurs were around. Like cholesterol, genes are indicted: certain proof is always guilt by association. It's not like proof of spirits established directly (that is, without arguing to judges or a consensus by committee) by lighting matches or in internal mediation by personally imbibing. The miracle is that the magic works at all, but that's the nature of a mystery, especially when it calls itself an exact science because it's learned to weld to anything a probability (as long as the electrodes are attached with the proper polarity). Who would dare to say they're hiding behind a cop-out blowing air?

In psychoanalytic terms, the infatuation for genetics and dna is a fetish or wish manifestation for a return to the womb, and not unlike the historic contemplation of a golden age, the last or future paradisic situation. Few will consider it but the disgruntled or disenfranchised (or those with no encouragement) whose only opinion of the present age is nasty, brutish and short (or alternatively, all too frigging long) is necessary to such backward thinking or imaginary futuristic fantasy.

Fathers are said to love their sons only because they're fathers as if it's a priori or stands to reason: "Of course I love you; I'm your father!". It means that love is tied to the title which accompanies the name so doesn't need a proof extracted from some feelings and behaviour. It means the definition of consanguineal love is just linguistic duty. The legal duty is established through genetic analysis (or a timely fucking) and is only satisfied with home and hearth or money. In the same way, since without the constraints of morality, affinal love can only be ensured not by sex as most assume (it wouldn't be timely), but with a legal contract such that the law can make it binding. Hence the common aphorism of desire: "Ah, to be young and in love" which indicates an epoch in which one didn't give a shit about political economics or the religious when contemplating relationships and then the dreamy go on to complain that the kids are innately just too young to get it or too lazy to get with it. But who but bigots would make the call for a genetical democracy? Well, there always seems to be a Bill Gates married to Monsanto.

What might Max and Dora say? Compartmentalised for whatever reason, when one becomes bonded with an idea, in need of protection or care or even display, it is a child or lover. Eyes are averted at every delinquency. It is free to move out of its compartment to explore or mingle, and there is always a room with a warm bed awaiting its return. Every transgression, if even noticed, is forgiven. Even a contrary fit disturbing its room-mates. Unconditionally, this is a no-string theory. This is maternal love fathers share, stronger than even that toward material children. "Real" children must fit, more so than even their ideal counterpart. Children won't sit still, but the ideal sets in stone, on display. Yet only well groomed and bonded ideas are truly free spirits, thoughts fully independent of the thinker. But the thinker's bond is stronger than any expression of love or hate. With love, there is absolute truth. Less, there are degrees of concern or even ambivalence. As well might be felt a true spirit possession, a prodigal idea impossible to expel. One must nurture or protect the idea even more so with each escalating demand. This is the chief risk of too firm a grasp of reality and firmly planted feet. It has a tendency to solidify one. Or the spirit achieves more rock-hardness and the person becomes a noxious vapor. It could be dangerous for bystanders.

Could it be that without an organ sensitive to time and private property, there'd be no susceptibility to sophistry? Until you drop it a handheld implement is easy to see, but where the hell's the bio-clock in Gray's Anatomy? Even a chicken who falls asleep just after sunset will repeat the act at noon when time is an illusion made by covering its head before the ice-pick's shoved right through it. In such cases, time is not just a contradiction, it's the light and dark of enlightened dis-illumination and some might say, like love, it's grounds for a retrogressive auto-contraception. But then recall, a gene is just an old expression in a world of possibility and time is just a bloated, immaterial incorporeality and before you know it, taken out from under your entirety.

Silence - A Fable by Edgar Allan Poe, (1837)

'Eudosin d'orheon korhuphai te kai pharhagges'
'Prhones te kai charhadrhai.'

The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags and caves are silent.

– Alcman, (60 (10),646.)

"LISTEN to me," said the Demon as he placed his hand upon my head. "The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders of the river Zaire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.

"The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow not onwards to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh one unto the other.

"But there is a boundary to their realm – the boundary of the dark, horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits, one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever, until they roll, a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zaire there is neither quiet nor silence.

"It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall and the rain fell upon my head – and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.

"And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood by the shore of the river, and was lighted by the light of the moon. And the rock was gray, and ghastly, and tall, – and the rock was gray. Upon its front were characters engraven in the stone; and I walked through the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decypher them. And I was going back into the morass, when the moon shone with a fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock, and upon the characters; – and the characters were DESOLATION.

"And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the actions of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and was wrapped up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his figure were indistinct – but his features were the features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care; and, in the few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sorrow, and weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.

"And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; – but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock.

"And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon the dreary river Zaire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; – but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.

"Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; – but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.

"Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful tempest gathered in the heaven where, before, there had been no wind. And the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest – and the rain beat upon the head of the man – and the floods of the river came down – and the river was tormented into foam – and the water-lilies shrieked within their beds – and the forest crumbled before the wind – and the thunder rolled – and the lightning fell – and the rock rocked to its foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; – but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.

"Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed, and were still. And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to heaven – and the thunder died away – and the lightning did not flash – and the clouds hung motionless – and the waters sunk to their level and remained – and the trees ceased to rock – and the water-lilies sighed no more – and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the characters of the rock, and they were changed; – and the characters were SILENCE.

"And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock were SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more."

Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi – in the iron-bound, melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty sea – and of the Genii that over-ruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was much lore too in the sayings which were said by the Sybils; and holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around Dodona – but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the Demon told me as he sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.

THE END

GRACE & CONTROL IN RITUAL PERFORMANCE"a gesture narrowly divides us from chaos"

In formal dance, that is, in observing it, since it is not a movement which I myself engage, grace only gives off a whiff of calculation and control. Control is an illusion cast forth like the reflection of a gleaming habit, something which is so well practiced, it is subliminal, unconscious, spontaneous, automatic. It's not unlike informal dance when such applies to music which, in this case, dances you. Sometimes a put-on like a priestly fabric, it may be that sublimity is more the experience of the observer than the performer, but that's beside the point. In the theatre of Artaud, the distinction between performer and audience is the starring absence, a magic disappearing act, the practice in extricating demons in broad daylight. Danced correctly, which is to say, "in fashion", there's no room left on the stage, even for a lonely hyphen.

Control that's not just trusting your own muscular and metabolic memories is never letting loose; all can see it's awkward, putting nothing down to chance or what's between the frames which gives two gestures continuity, the illusion that's reality – a movement rather than sequential stoppages – self-control prevents recovery and health – it makes for awkward blockages. The "C" words might be re-cured with "comfort", "expertise", "well-seasoned", since nothing has been sacrificed except perhaps our reason. Recalling the identity of myth and mirth or muthos as a speech which tastes like muther's milk (especially if you're starving), the indifference between order and disorder in magic time only represents a hyphenated state where duality is the grandest of illusions but most dangerous and tricky to perform. Order and chaos are both irreverent, impious, irrelevant.

As with guitar lessons, control lives in past tenses, in tension, attending to avoid practicing one's mistakes, that is, the repetition of the pre-mature or unintended. A mindfulness without intellectual interference, calculation only reflects the absence of speed which thereafter increases in acceleration such that both observer and performer miss the dance of fingers like it was a lost bead in a shell game. The difference between a bad actor and a good one is that the former merely uses tricks to persuade you something's real. On the other hand, we see a complete metamorphosis akin to any metempsychosis. One can judge the reality of a performance by randomly hitting the pause button – observe the freeze-framed expression on the face: Is it awkward looking or appropriate to the surrounding situation, to the stage? Imbueing life, the mask and costume may be essential to the transformation, assuming it's not just one's belief constructing reality if it's played with feeling.

There's the same sense of astonishment witnessed by the less than skeptical entranced at the magic show. There may be glandular secretions. Grace is the present awareness of everything going on subliminally such that one may at will change direction without stumbling, whether we're on the topic of fingers, feet or flapping tongues. That is adaptation, where freedom comes to bodies when the brain is left on hold, but not rendered unconscious. We've been told that that is also Zen, when things just seem to come together, and then they come again, when "hurling everything 'to chaos" feels like pleasure, not upchucking variegated, nauseated sin.

With all the words ending in -(t)ion like in commotion or rendition, the effect comes across as natural. Imagine two dancers meeting in chance encounter in the fashion of an Epicurean particle-collision. If an explosive bounce does not ensue, it's intentional repetition is called a choreography (in square-dancing, "the call") which makes it reproducible and therefore, stylized. Remember that in Dada, only from such epic, or should I say heroic collisions and heroine addictions emerge new forms. In ballet, we'd imagine a leap or bound from the stage, but that's just an after-thought confused with the allusion to offspring – that one leaps for joy is a natural interpretation, but broadly speaking means the sign has metamorphosed back into symbol, like it was any offering. This is merely an expropriation if it is understood or given that dogma and religion were first to take the symbols and make them into signs, that is attached an appropriated meaning; appropriate thus means that truth is only found in representation; it starts out as a bait-and-switch manipulation, like to live is merely not to die; that is, it was, put forth for someone else'e ends, a great big fat oversimplification, that is, a lie; not unresembling Alfred Jarry's puppet, Ubu Roy.

Without grammatical dissections or incision, Mr. Grey Matter is clearly capable of intuitive precision. Neither is dance and music much different from speech when one is aware of each utterance expressed almost spontaneously but perceiving semantic associations as if they were body movements, and then we see that they literally are from the reverberating vocal strings (a general strike and then again, a harp or xylophone) to the accompanying beat of one or more ear drums: "as if from an immense dripping forest, and in the equally sonorous interlacing of movements" we have the sighting of a symphony setting fire to the stage. Without hypocrisy are sounds like words and deeds with good intentions, divining distant other stages on which that tune's been heard. And sometimes it's a parody, for laughs or criticisms. I'm sure that Torquemada thought he was only helping Antonin Artaud with thirty seven electrocutions. Like all the roads to Dante's hell were paved with good intentions, only searching for some gold or justice' dispensation – some would rather call it "reason".

Think you not? The unconsciously expressed "thank you" is instantly answered with a well-practiced "you're welcome", but what is that? Awareness and unconscious (instant) word-play present the missing meaning as an action scenario: "you've come well" in answer to good thoughts put forth, as if we've all forgot the present since thanksgiving's not just eating but as well, for giveness. In many worlds "no thanks" as the refusal of a gift would be considered rude, that is, ungraceful. Faced with such unthinking might elicit a response or counter-move – "Them thar is fightin' words, dude!" Oh, such nihilistical ingratitude!

The climax of this spinning dance is vertigo, like dining on L-tryptophan or tripping at a fan dance. Reversability of the greeting, like a chicken and egg argument, sets up an equivalence between a visit and a gift. It's no exchange, they're dancing together – the host says "bienvenida, welcome, it's a mess", the visitor's "gracias, no es nada" is not confused with "asshole, thanks for nothing" but the rendering, "good thinking, gracious one but this is nothing" means a mess is in the eye of a beholder or just inconsequential.

Ain't it always something? Grace only ever works when gifts are both free and well intended. Forces of control are never, well, invited. Thanks is just the second person, past participle [from Latin particeps "a sharing" (see participate)] and durative sense of thinking, all from the PIE (as simple as archaic european) root *tong- "to think or feel." Thinking of a German Thing ('assembly'), it's not too hard to see a Chinese Tong a'coming into view. Or whatever grabs you like ice cubes or a hot potato. Coming is a synonym for entrancing, but really, who'd a' think-thank thunk it? We were on the topic of fish-bowl mutuality or some dancing on a stage while juggling dynamite – it's all the rage. That is, a theatre with no room for economic sentimentalisms like one-upmanship or give-and-take – a dance that's once and for all, done with judgments and with leaders.

Linguistics & Construction-Work

“The fact of the matter is that the ‘real world’ is to a large extent unconsciously built up on the language habits of the group . . . We see and hear and otherwise experience very largely as we do because the language habits of our community predispose certain choices of interpretation.”

– Edward Sapir, 1925

But let's not get too discouraged here, since in any single language

(if there even is such a thing, considering that languaging grows beyond the lifetimes of speakers, mixes or transforms until all the mouths are closed or there's a universal outbreak of aphasia or dysplasia or any massive cue progressing toward a collective graveyard. Are there artifacts, like is there print if no one reads it? If no one's left to hear, is there a-muse still talking? Like would a six foot rabbit hear some fuzzy voices or some wily critter howling at the moon?), an infinite number of utterances might be made, any reality might be postulated along any number of dimensions (that word has yet to be adequately defined, but in this case, it probably refers in some way to largeness in a number of shifty critters called criteria pacing along besides length and breadth and depth), their reversals, inversions, tensions and ruptures or any combination there-of without necessarily losing your place since, while invisible to the rational mind or gray matter, they're clear to shifting organs of sensation. In this sense the brain's a thing only as their meeting place. An event occurs in-between them.

Most importantly, without the ambiguity of metaphor and other language tricks, there'd be nothing to say, at least nothing of interest except perhaps to obsessed mathematicians, as long as possibility is preferred over the prevailing disappointment of failing prediction beyond counting fingers on a hand but before the angels start dancing on a pin. Lest we forget, Sapir & Whorf were talking about linguistified reality as mimicked sets of habits whose place is called by geographers "the habitat". That habit, if you have it, means style, vogue or what's in fashion, not just vapors shooting up from under your foot or others up your nose. Sometimes it's just a dangerous addiction. But who correctly posits any universal style hiding somewhere underneath your clothes except the fashion-police running in the shadow of Mr. Jones? Should your reality be any different? Not just guests or ghosts, our own errors may be the worst which come to haunt us. Back in Myth-time anything was possible and most importantly, folks can communicate with other others just the same as they seem to do with each other. It's not quite a Dr. Do little thing, but that may be a good start, never the less, it may involve some chewing and regurgitation, another word for shape-shifting.

"There’d be no work for tinkers’ hands. We have another life. It shadows the life we actually lead. We occasionally become aware of it, particularly in those moments where we step outside of what it is that we are, and reflect upon, for better or worse, how it might have been. We are presented with, in that moment where we have become exactly whatever it is that we are, another who is not us, but who also is. This other us is a type of intimate personage, a subset of our self. The life we have not lived is always, at the very least, conceivable and therefore, remains subject to us. Or anyway, we are attached to it somehow – it seems to haunt significant crossroads and drags us back there. To shake ourselves free from the melancholy hold of this shadow, we consider the innumerable variables of existence, and multiply all the other others we also might have been. By means of conjuring up the possibility of other lives we also did not live, we relativise the significance of the life we actually failed to bring into the world. But these other others are categorically distinct from our intimate stranger – they are merely the lives that we have not not lived. We are never presented, in moments of regret or celebration, with the roads that are not not taken. These possible computations of existence have no substance for us, they are like the fantasies of others, wholly uncompelling; their improbable coilings and writhings permanently accompany our every moment without our ever giving them the least attention. They do not ever achieve the compelling and haunting form of our other self, that spectre who fixes us to who we actually are."

– thetheologicalturn

Just like the difference between "public opinion" and "the rise of neo-nazi sentiment reflected at the poles" as well as in quasi-journalistic peanut galleries or reality tv, the after-image may reflect that only Wilhelm Reich's fascists are left to do the voting, deprived as they are of love but never sex and gender. Quantification is meaningless outside of any surveilled sample. What is not observed might just as well have been excluded, and this is no argument for universal suffrage unless one over-wishes to extend the suffering. Nazis have always been big fans of democracy, as long as they remain the fittest, and not in any numerical sense, another misconfusion of quantity and quality inheritant in all darwinian analyses, should only flukes survive which more accurately reflects that survival of survivors is in dialectical opposition only to the worms of decomposition.

Through the lens of extended environmental conspiracies, we see from a height (a sort of superstition) the worms are us as well (or as well-connected to the ground a' wiggling), and fascist pigs are only "living" inside the telescopic spyglass but have no vision of their own, hence no imagination, hence are most alone without a doppleganger or even shadow and if well-deserved of pity, they couldn't accept that gift as there's nothing in them to be resonated like a guitar string by a flat pick or shovel to the head – perhaps the only creatures in the verse born dead or shortly there-after sung in post-pleistocenic time scales. Only worms and earthly microbes are for giving, which is why when pigs are pumped with formaldehyde and wearing their protection, they keep on coming even after we inter them. No good can come preserving mummies except to fuel steam-powered ships or future loco motives. Such is the problem of historical interpretation: it must proceed backwards, to a point disqualifying as inadmissible the possibility of other others. Mythic discourse is not weighed down by relegated absences of monsters or material effects (like glandular secretions) from ethereal forces (like remorse or anticipation).

Exclusion, that is, disqualification only ensures that language remains one-sided and therefore, in stasis, that is to say, stagnant but without the entendre of living organisms superflurishing in a swamp. We're talking frozen solid like an iceberg or rock. Otherwise the invalid can only limp along with a persuasive crutch. The only discourse is its own, a monologue when even floppy ears are not included. Extracted from their context like a corn-cob from Illinois, even they are not immortal. Like lies, Pharaohs burn hot when subjected to a flame which shares the essences of fire. The transparent substance of a truth is likely leaky, but everyone has seen a liar.

Besides the confusion of criteria with "class" in the construction of categories (most of which, like brackets, are not but artificial or political means for boxing within boxes) there's the same amnesiatic condition antagonistically prevailing. To wit: for human sorts at least not swimming in the sea in schools of parrots, there's no social anything without a bit of languaging. If one can't see its own reflection, could we ever even sense there is another in the world, even as a possibility? What chance then have other words or worlds existing, without coinciting a reality or kindle its untwisting? It may not be the language after all producing cosmic order, but it's arrogant rules of grammar which insist that, despiting eyes and nose and ears and toes, meaning or semantic system is more synonymous with the thing which makes most sense than any tongue or organ.

– the myth-time and the timely myth