ABOUT WHAT YOU DO
or neurologycal atypical patterns
or how to practice anticapitalism
if you want to tell one thing you tell another one
if you want to do something you get distracted by something else
you look at the frame
you never know anything about the content
you ask yourself if the content is the structure
is the structure the content?
you always need a context
you always recognise a context
you are always out of context
you always go out
you are out
you always go somewhere else
you go further away
you get completely lost
in the forest
in the room
in the streets
you keep on forgetting what it is about
you keep on doing what you are doing
you keep on repeating what you are doing
you repeat with differences
you have faith
lost in the forest you find things you would never imagine
you always learn something you don't know
you are an idiot
you never know what you are doing
you difract attention
you do hundred things at the same time
or just one for an immeasurable amount of time
when you want to write you go reading in the library
when you want to focus you go walking in silence
when you go to the cafe reading philosphy you write looking at people dealing drugs or getting out of the toilets after wild and short sex
you never went to school
you have kids and an extended family spread around
you weave impossible things together
you always do something else
you do everything obsessively
you do nothing obsessively
you stay still in your room per hours
you wander all the time
you translate into words
you try to grasp what it is about with words
you take notes
you write millions of letters
you always need an interlocutor
a distance between you and the other
you practice metamorphosis
you become the tree
you become the bramble
you become the wild pork
you always come back
but you are never the same
you keep on doing always the same by doing always something else
you always move away from you and you always end up with another you
you listen to a song that brings you to that place
you listen to that song again and again
you listen to echoes from the pink floyd
you are half bear and very sexy
you are with lots of people
while being somewhere else
you prepare the conditions
you offer whisky
and home baked bread if you had time
you share the structure with the interlocutors
you share the scores with the participants
you are the participants
you never manage to grasp the whole
you are always missing an important part
you practice losing an important information
you practice losing the other
you practice losing
but you are always taking responsability
you are not original
you are always in relationship with something
you are alone
you are with the others
you are obvious
you do operations
like + or -
you love mathematics
and you don't want to know too much about it
you don't know mathematics
that's why you love it
because you can wonder about it
you do mathematical operations though
you know it is about the operation and not the esthetic of it
you are baroc
you are minimalistic
you are punk
you are pop
you pop up possibilities, reveries, dreams
you do with what is there
you are very slow
and you change your life in an eye blinck
you trust not understanding
you practice non productivity
you practice not
you don't practice
you are lazy on the sofa
you are a mother
you always shift perspective
you practice one millimeters shifts
you trust non agreement
you fucking enjoy
you open the box inside the box
the reference inside the reference
the bone inside the muscle
the organ inside the bone
the philosophy inside the organ
the flash inside the philosophy
you follow the rules
you are my favourite writer, which is like telling warrior.
I enter with you, I open the window and a myriad of animals enter the room.
since a while I am no longer surprised, they are part of the extended family, or of this dislocated way in which my neurons practice alliances in bumpy paths. I feel the greasy warmth and pungent smell of proximity now that these beasts are here. but they are still gentle enough to avoid the piles of books as if they were trees in my room and, to my amazement, they do not eat them. perhaps the books are trees even in this transformed version and retain a sufficient degree of roughness to ensure their survival in the encounter with the other, and somehow they resist.
roughness is a quality of the fractal indeed... perhaps the book is the pattern of the fractal tree seen much much closer. a millimetric proximity.
the crates of the latest publication arrived at home, I pulled out all the books because I wanted them to physically occupy space and in the scattered stacks they actually occupy a much more chaotic and cluttered order of ideas, in which, needless to say, I obviously get lost.
I manage, however, to make my way confusedly to the closed fireplace and pull out the chessboard. I place your letter A in B7, a peripheral position of presence that I like, hoping that even though you have it before your eyes you will not recognise it as insidious.
it isn't. it brings the mystery of all those things we don't see even though we are standing next to them, or we are immersed into them, thinking we have understood.
this letter A in our game, in B7, is a metal spinning top like the one in the film inception, whirling around the four walls of the game box because there is nothing to disprove between us.
there it is, now the cow has risen from the quadruple bed in which I chose to sleep and sniffs at my game puffing curiously between my childhood and my white hair, and while breathing in its whirling whirlwind distractedly, it doesn't notice the spinning top dancing.
the weight of her presence is a peace of galactic times. as soon as I think of her, I feel like leaning my body against the philosophy contained in her mass. then she moves her head in the direction of the window and I see that the water level is rising. I sit on the windowsill and notice that the whole street is now covered by a layer of water some ten centimetres thick. the cow makes its way through the water with its weighted step and a bird comes to perch between its horns.
you and I have been here before. do you remember?
I thought I didn't have images, but look at this.
Look how I think through images.
Look how I can learn through them.
How I can be with the world through them.
I take the chessboard like a tray and holding the spinning top still balanced inside its square I gently place it on the water and the chessboard begins to sail.
apart from you and me, the road is deserted, but to say so seems absurd.
tomorrow luckily enough there's the djset with the beautiful trans she-friends.
I don't remember the address though.