More Inaesthetic American Thoughts.

A kind of nattoesque goo connects hovering patties of interlinking, 3 dimensional, nominally, or transitionally, but not exclusively zoomorphic emblematures. I call them emblematures, firstly, because they are assemblies like armatures, but secondly, they are wholesomely individual and congealed, like emblems. And the way this makes sense to me is somehow imagining the emblem as a conceptual hologram, something that, when torn asunder, still reveals some singular reality, or ensembleness. The whole effect then, is of singular ensemblenesses ensembling. Is this a reflexive image of the brain, or of localized psychology produced as a sort of ornamental segmentality?
That much of life relies on segmentality is telling. Segmentality itself is a sort of space or ground from which versions of segmentality assemble and disassemble. What becomes the basis for much of our tragedy is that we constructively blind ourselves to this level of abstraction, choosing to move out of this clean, almost wanton musicality of materiality; segmentality seemingly a non-ironic version of musicality, where semantic labels might be distributed in new ways.

If the human body were a song, a simple, or a complex song, a symphony, perhaps,
what parts would be called what?

Would the skeleton be a bassline harmoniously organizing the inner contours of the melody of skin?

The term cognatal just popped into my mind, indicating the temporal as a primoridium, and as the space of thought, the now of thought as a birthing place, or even, and I've thought this before, as a supplementariness whose structure makes me think of something like the dancing floor at the entrance to the labyrinth.

When I was in Boston, I was getting drunk, more or less, at some reading that K. Silem Mohammad and some other people were giving at David Larson's apartment. Now that isn't a very politically correct wat to say any of that, but it's not really in my field of interest for this. An odd thing happened there. I saw a young man wearing
a t-shirt which was a labyrinth, and I commented to him, that the body was a labyrinth, and that the labyrinth of culture, and thought was a recapitulation of that labyrinth. Then, he seemed non-plussed, and asked me where I got that from, and was I quoting, to which I answered, maybe myself, but I then reminded him of the figure of Humbaba or Humwawa, the Babylonian forest demon or what not. At any rate, in my reading lately I've come across Andre' Masson's painting of the body as labyrinth, and while the motif seems rather obvious, and perhaps a little baked at this point, it too, is a level of abstraction which is perfectly real as in we live the reality of our selves and physical spaces, as a sort of musical segmentality navigating or narrvigating, as in narrating and navigating confused, and confusing themselves. Oftentimes our narration of events will confuse our navigation, and viceversa. Even the term Outre' seems to harken to a sort of confus-ed out of pocket
mentality, but these tones are more or less tonalities, coloratura of the medium
of our narrvigational mendbrane.

Why wouldn't something completely new, be better than a culturally constructed exercise? Why isn't it feasible for the entire earth to enter a sort of

carnival of segmentality
a convivium based on the knowledge
that construction is our inescapable dwelling.

Is life and culture simply too big and complex
to be made fun and interesting and inclusive?

Is there any reason to code variance in segmentality at all,
to enter a kind of sage's time

of unitary difference
wherein all things
are have been and will be

the yilnarvion

the e=pic

putting an equal between e and pic
is something I did years ago
and is actually backed with some more flat-footed
Kantian style arguments

all things must pass through the manifold of image
to exist at all.

This is sort of contrary to something like the nagual,
but the nagual is still a narrative

within the tonal. it's saying

there could be a gap here, but to think of a gap
i have to fill a gap.

The only real gap in a human life is something closer
to what Blanchot does I think with the idea of death.

To the living, death is always, the nagual.