-Antonin Artaud
The Gates Toward Monstrosities and the Theatricality of Death
Every bridge that spans a gulf in transit requires interdependent torsional connections wherein all connections are critical to the whole. Of a bridge is well conceived as a metaphor or has a more familiar materiality it is said to have good motion, and in all things beneath a sun have motion... whether we can perceive or conceive of this or not as a truism. Every connection is a gate to this torsional, load bearing capability in the language that is the torsional motion of energy. More metaphors arise, capacitance, resistance, the strata of language of correspondences, what the metallurgists known as alchemists utilize to go grocery shopping when building energetic bridges or gates to span psychic fabrics that a purgatory has washed clean. I stood at a gate borrowed from a medieval vault and turned to that which looked much akin to Julian Beck and we both laughed at one another's appearance in relation to our "bumping into one another" in a arranged dream at this location and we made a pact in a microsecond not to ask one another what we were doing there ...which was no coincidence. I began, "How many gates are there in this place?" Without missing a beat he said flatly; "How many do you want?" We had a good laugh at the poignancy of this absurdity of a cipher in a third party codex...... of which we spoke of what was to most, nonsense.
The theatrical nature of this membrane I sensed Julian had arranged as a set piece which was discouraging, and so he held out his palm and there was a small pinpoint of light that became a inflationary and organic bubble that glowed like a light stick full of swirling dust, fire fly's that swirled in a snow globe which we entered to awake in our local bistros, me in my bed to await dreams which then became monstrosities later that evening.
The Torsion of Movement By Mythologies: Jacob's Ladder and The Anarchy of Order
Like a poorly conceived character,earlier that day I sat in the waiting room of a chiropractor's office awaiting my daughter and Neil Young's "After The Goldrush" was the background music to which I searched for reading material and the only selection was a stack of magazines devoted to high performance automobiles, which was a superimposition arranged by the memory of "An American Implosion" where I had written of a future class warfare based on access to mobility. Solipism as a theatrical device with a third party codex. I painfully smirked. Electric cars at $40,000.00. The mirror winked. 2,000 year old mythologies, the rationale of magical thinking with a foot on the gas pedal seeking a lesser resurrection. The glory of mankind with heavy editing as this goes to press. It made me ruminate on the bickering of idealists in Ufology as chosen manna for an alien nature. The deep irony is that perhaps they already are in a way that defy's the limits of their deep seated anxieties and desires, hoisted by a variety of petards seeking some existential recognition that flap and wiggle in a vacuum. Or not. Of Porsche's, mobility, movements and vague distinctions. A silver bridge waiting to happen.
Or not. The torsion of states. personalized linkages to the rationality of human purpose. The old man waves us off again as a warning at the cutting edge of these frailties. You may bleed as everything has it's cost.
The Approach of A Descent Into The Atmospheric
My dream regarding Beck, my writing of "An American Implosion" as well as "The Possesion of Dreams" was signaled by the damping of my two dogs various birds and cat in the interior of my house. This was a gravitational pull from the solidity of my position toward the instinctual sense of the dense center of an Earth that is a material referent, whose dense core rotates thousands and thousands of time faster in velocity than the surface upon which we live. The center of this vortex burns without heat through the strata where salts leech to form crystals fused from stone, from dirt and then to the sea, to the magnetosphere, all of which are all perhaps attributes of a catch basin in an eddy of living connective tissues, nerve ends that writhe and turn with a movement that acquired faces. A strange motion we do not perceive. The dogs who are playful, curious and territorial would not come out of their beds, the birds were silent and the cat could not be found. All day. I looked at the ceiling as any self respecting third dimensional membrane would tied to what is preposterously "above"me which as I made this gesture, as if to myself, a metaphor, toward an atmosphere most strange in descent like a damp fog arising from a shaded valley, where sounds were muffled, locational beacons masked, sounds come from nowhere in an unusual silence I had duly noticed, from the forest of alleged objects. Something from elsewhere was somewhere, it felt thick, it felt absorbent, and oddly, somewhat sad that made the creatures in my vicinity still....beyond remarkable to as if space were being filled like pouring water into a container, and I was a fish in this bowl, neither expecting pennies from heaven or a low pressure zone. The psychic terrain of a noted physicality. Was it the spirit of Julian Beck? Or not. You decide as this is all beside the point is it not as if it were a probe into a cloud or mist, only to be determined by it's withdrawal like returning from a foreign climate.
The Catacomb Hive Of Dead Skins
I was about to begin last night, a movement toward which was signaled by three discernible movements into an unknown realm where the inner monstrosities of psychic disfigurement were worn on the surface of various membranes, like spirits of a certain gravitational weight had condensed on the surface of a admixture like a glue but not, they had glued themselves into a contingent strata where they functioned as suffering drones driven, poised and locked in a living amber barely able to keep from dissolving into a living honeycomb of individuated stations within a state. This is no metaphor, it is a living organism like the belly of some beast I had entered into as a extra-dimensional dream. Trapped into a movement by their own volition where imagination had failed them against a incommensurable reality, frozen them into a living habitation as external masks forced to do the bidding of what they critically assumed was their nature, like a pet corn, a loved fault, a guilt, a burden of duty. I had entered a rubbish heap of discarded skins that remain behind in a half life, like radiation of a form that jelled into a many dimensioned catacomb, where I attempted to assist, perform some altruistic destination that was a product of my own pet corns, to do what? I did not know what to do but play along which buried me deeper in a amber, and one of these monstrosities approached me while dragging dead bodies from a stainless steel like floor, as if one were moving rubbish bags from a disposal unit, while others vomited, some frozen like trapped animals, some focused on their work, this motion of seeming absurdities, that smelled like various foodstuffs, sensual rewards, crowded , damp, and he turned to me and I immediately felt a poignant sensation as he walked toward me, stopping his task, and said "My name is John Newsome" as if to pin me to a board, these are human beings, although disfigured by being inside out, trapped in a thickness, a catacomb of dead skins. I am a person. I know I am here. I deserve your respect if anything. I felt brought down several pegs. I fell off the page I was reading, circumspect and restive toward my own inside being outward or was in? it mattered not when you are exposed as a fraud.
My curiosity and discomfort made me follow throngs from there where all the routes were perambulation through this hive of habit- habitation...and in one final act I was terrified of, to be molded in a clear mask configured by wiring seen through the mold to become a product that was utilitarianism, a form I resisted..scared to death, to the extent I awoke in another dream.
The Relativity of Death
I turned on the television on that early morning, and everyone was speaking in a foreign language, a code, a script. They were dead, or was I? Julian Beck knows, even if he borrowed this from Artaud, this living theater...and the theatricality of death, which patterns the other.. rationality at a reduced cost that always has a price tag imprinted in a genome that fills the many colors of a container with clear water.
Do what thou wilt.
"the breasts of all the women crumpled like gas bags when
neruda wrote his hymn celebrating the explosion of a hydrogen bomb by soviet authorities
children died of the blisters of ignorance for a century more when
siqueiros tried to assassinate trotsky himself a killer with gun and ice
pound shimmering his incantations to adams benito and kung prolonging the state with great translation cut in crystal
claudel slaying tupí guaraní as he flourished cultured documents and pearls in rio de janeiro when he served france as ambassador to brazil
melville served by looking for contraband as he worked in the customs house how many taxes did he requite how many pillars of the state did he cement in place tell me tell me tell me stone
spenser serving the faerie queene as a colonial secretary in ireland sinking the irish back for ten times forty years no less under the beau monde’s brack
seneca served by advising nero on how to strengthen the state with philosophy’s accomplishments
aeschylus served slaying persians at marathon and salamis
aristotle served as tutor putting visions of trigonometrics in alexander’s head
dali and eliot served crowning monarchs with their gold
wallace stevens served as insurance company executive making poems out of profits
euclides da cunha served as army captain baritoning troops
and even d h lawrence served praising the unique potential of a king
these are the epics of western culture
these are the flutes of china and the east
everything must be rewritten then
goethe served as a member of the weimar council of state and condemned even to death even to death
this is the saga of the state which is served
even to death"
-Julian Beck
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