reflections after a lobotomy

I’m not sure what happened in the first 3 months.  There was a lot of returning to experiences that represented important things that were already overplayed and thus were evermore.  There was a desire to eliminate content.  If it were possible to tap into a deadly repetition that only repeats the decay of meaning in stereo detonation, but of course it is not and so this does not work. There was poetry like this:

In a single moment / You miss missing / You miss missing missing / You miss missing missing missing / also you sneeze

The sneeze is what wakes you up. The impossibility of simultaneous
Sneezing and Sleep that soothes all living creatures

and unbearable creation.

Then there were new things that wanted to be what was but were not, and so they were tentative in a way that really only signifies the function of fear in society.  These inquiries were delicate and few and far between; late night researching of the inconclusive nature of prion diseases, composing something unemotional while feeling ill, writing what will have already been written obscured by birthright and tourism which is to say a brief interest in Russia.

Around the 4th month there was, conceivably, vacillation between spiritual awakening and existential crisis.

An intriguing symptom of this state (see: windshield wipers, rocking chairs outside of Cracker Barrel) is you eventually descend somewhere simply in-between, and that in-between turns out to be the possibility of negative redemption which is to say the Sublime. I did not quite know what to do with This.  There was intuitive bliss that came from Somewhere.  There was the sensation of being spread eagled in Antarctica.  There was an overshadowing of a life’s worth of Standard Peripheral Noise (in essence, distraction, which is to say the function of fear in society, the terror of not-being here in whatever you do, be it mathematics or eating soup).

On June 13th, 2014, I was unaware of where I was.  There was only the luxury of longing for everyone and everything and art that was once, and this was real because it could be again, and in such a way we reverse nostalgia with our tongues.  I looked at many things; I found the Art that you all made, and in a sweeping gesture kinder than vomit, maybe, the periphery grew into all-that-ever-is-to-be-read, to-be-heard, to-be-witnessed-and-observed.  This was mostly fucking great, which may well make smirking the condition of truth.

Mostly all this birthed a Ritual, which from the start felt very clean.  You plumb the depths of focus, as you must.  Maybe the ritual eventually falls a bit to the side of itself, and now it is work, but this is OK.  At some point you begin to make Art again.

At this point, most days, I don’t want to know what I know.  Not in the sense of Mind Kill but so as to practice an attention so piercing that any and all reactions, every impulse, is shrouded in immaculate consciousness, because so much of what is done is unconscious, and once you see the unconsciousness and realize the consciousness of it, you find Horror, big enough to surpass every intellectual process ever deconstructed that you think you know, and you see this Horror played out in a way that jumps from life to life all tick-like and it’s all your life, host and parasite, especially the part at the end where you paradigmatically wake up abandoned at a Food Court even though this did not actually happen because what actually did was likely more Horrific because it is the least amount of thought ever or of anything at all, least of all consciousness, which is all it could possibly be and so now what.

About thesupercoda

A weekly experimental cabaret
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