Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Whoretown, Here's a Hue and Cry.

Nous deflected and amused, an amassing, named by an unknowable Tirynthian, moments, heraldic or herladic, Shercules and D'argot Sonnat-was, of something, language's within, and without, to compose the mind's moving megaron, that or Pelasgian silence moving whence across all terms, times, "en-plak". And even this previous utterance, utterness, as vexed igzample of new citingnesses, al methodia: Syntaxis. It is true. Recently, I happened to find the title of a book which is good versioning of some sense of syntaxis, namely: Sarah Riggs' Chain of Miniscule Decisions in the Form of a Feeling which goes far along the way in giving sense to semiosis by way of bilding with large stones in the manner of a cyclopian Tiryns; ie, how perfectly large and perfect Chain of Miniscule Decisions is as a description of indexicality itself, and then the subsequent in the Form of a Feeling uniting Indexicality to Experience. What is implicit here to the initiated is the slippage in the verticality, or ladder of abstraction. The term Decisions is the hook which directs the sense to the whole person level of granularity, or molarity. Decisionality as part of agency as presented as computationalism, and further, the relationality of consciousness as supplementarity to agency presented as computationalism, that rendering, which cannot surpass feeling. Years ago, in the 80's sometime, a friend and I were sitting around doing collages, and at some point he wrote, mood is all. Over the years, I have come to join that phrase into a single mythical substance, not the faded historical ether, the grand and fabric-like basement of matter, but and eitherium, or Moodisol, a pop-chthonic-daimoniam, the original been-here-done-that. Pop as always new, and Chthonic as never new, and daimoniam as a sort of 
 or '3-mad daughters': demon-daimon-diamond. Crystals have often been used as metaphors for the way the half-living thing called culture grows.  In Plato's Apology of Socrates, Socrates claimed to have a daimonion (literally, a "divine something") that frequently warned him - in the form of a "voice" - against mistakes but never told him what to do. However, the Platonic Socrates never refers to the daimonion as a daimōn; it was always an impersonal "something" or "sign". If we look at computationalism / agency as something like a computer program, the sign of the daimon is like a breakpoint, or a decision point. Think of John Ashbery's Flowchart, another leg in our rumination upon titles. Recently on Facebook, there has been some discussion of the eccentric as the base of design, to which I ruminated unsuccessfully to myself:

One can speak about a "base of design" in a poem with reference to the way tree limbs look, and perhaps there is some graphemic lineage to branching figures; Graves says as much, and then there are the branching figures (caused by roasting) of the ancient Chinese oracle bones, but what about the eccentric base of our design? What could Duncan know of Endosymbiotic Evolution? Did he read "Metametazoa: Biology and Multiplicity" (1992 - In Incorporations: Fragments for a History of the Human Body, Jonathan Crary and Sanford Kwinter, editors, Zone, pp. 362-385). No. Did he ever look into the Viral Nucleogenesis of the cell? I doubt it. By simple statistics, we can easily surmise the root of not only design but zoe itself is eccentric, and until we see otherwise, singular. That singularity renders our entire reality post-rational, and not in the simple sense of 'crazy'.. It means, "not merely rational" as in supra-rational, and trans-rational.. This is precisely why gnosticism is something one might bring up if only for a word like pleroma. Every inscription that has ever been, and that includes ourselves as inscription, can not ever be anything more (or less) than the surface of a projection. The profundity, the pluromality (plural-flowing) assures this.. even eccentricity is x-syn-trick, for if we consent to the idea there is plural flowing, then the flowing itself must take a path, that path and those that take it are both composed of  moodisol. There is an odd correspondence in flowcharts, computational decision grams, and lineages. Here is the mythical lineage of Perseus:

Here is a Wolframian computationalist figure:

and here is a mood, a cozy mood:

There's nothing obvious about what I might say next, or is there? Notice whose linneage I used.
Now imagine there is something of a model for a poetics (and also one for the priestly sophism one finds within it) in that choice. If we roll back the linneage page in the text above from 82 to 79 you find this:

What strikes me as important is that 'eitherium' contained in the megapenthiadical triad of Perseus, Person, and Phersu. One starts to think of both things like Frank O'Hara's Personism, but also of the levels of reality and of roles, and of a culture composed of roles. One could really think about O'Hara's Personism in terms of these objects I have amassed:

Abstraction in poetry, which Allen [Ginsberg] recently commented on in It Is, is intriguing. I think it appears mostly in the minute particulars where decision is necessary. Abstraction (in poetry, not painting) involves personal removal by the poet. For instance, the decision involved in the choice between "the nostalgia of the infinite" and "the nostalgia for the infinite" defines an attitude towards degree of abstraction. The nostalgia of the infinite representing the greater degree of abstraction, removal, and negative capability (as in Keats and Mallarmé).
Personism, a movement which I recently founded and which nobody knows about, interests me a great deal, being so totally opposed to this kind of abstract removal that it is verging on a true abstraction for the first time, really, in the history of poetry. Personism is to Wallace Stevenswhat la poési pure was to Béranger. Personism has nothing to do with philosophy, it's all art. It does not have to do with personality or intimacy, far from it! But to give you a vague idea, one of its minimal aspects is to address itself to one person (other than the poet himself), thus evoking overtones of love without destroying love's life-giving vulgarity, and sustaining the poet's feelings towards the poem while preventing love from distracting him into feeling about the person. That's part of Personism. It was founded by me after lunch with LeRoi Jones on August 27, 1959, a day in which I was in love with someone (not Roi, by the way, a blond). I went back to work and wrote a poem for this person. While I was writing it I was realizing that if I wanted to I could use the telephone instead of writing the poem, and so Personism was born. It's a very exciting movement which will undoubtedly have lots of adherents. It puts the poem squarely between the poet and the person, Lucky Pierre style, and the poem is correspondingly gratified. The poem is at last between two persons instead of two pages. In all modesty, I confess that it may be the death of literature as we know it.

I could certainly go on from here, for one thing, that thing which 'seems too literal' is itself a form of the non or anti-literal, or composes an irronical or megapenthic irronity.. (what force does it carry?) To begin with, to connect 'rests in its capacity to reflect and externalize' with Every inscription that has ever been, and that includes ourselves as inscription, can not ever be anything more (or less) than the surface of a projection. But what a projection! What an amazingly weird and performance-like projection. Let's not be petty, or small here. We are those goddamn Psyclopfs, knocking on all the little fairy doors to see just who will come to answer. We are the ministers of the miniscule moodisol, the giant lilliputians wallowing in their own divine lillipollutions, etc.. There are all kinds of distinct levels in the world, separate dimensions that have real consequences, but they are all echoes of things that exist 'exactly the same way in nature,' for instance, and in a 'cyclopian or rustic way' // Perseus / Pherso as Particle / Wave // or like in that TV commercial

'the human element' Hu

Is that a Socratic yellow?

According to Plato's Apology, Socrates' life as the "gadfly" of Athens began when his friend Chaerephon asked the oracle at Delphi if anyone was wiser than Socrates; the Oracle responded that none was wiser. Socrates believed that what the Oracle had said was a paradox, because he believed he possessed no wisdom whatsoever.

Won't poetry (the moodisol en verticale) always remain

the wisest unwisdom?

And Oh yeah, Hey Frank, There is no poetry, art, or philosophy, really ~


a moody and doomed domed sun
in which we wander as

Irrates, or

Rates Here-ing..

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Irrony Observes The Earthing.