“To the poet, philosophy is pure emotionalism, poignancy for its own sake. To the poet, philosophy is cause to weep for no reason.” —Alberto Lopez, In Pursuit of Zosimos
Nas knew the game was rigged. He was from a brutal background and had seen the aestheticisation of mainstream corporate values for what they were. Information had become a parody of itself. What was it saying? What did it mean? N was not inclined to be moved by any bullshit information.
N discovered a psychological representation reduced to a vague feeling. Its meaning would have no further implication except in a fictional sense. So, any statement made by someone or other without factuality would not imply anything more than the meaning ascribed to it. Factual interpretation was unnecessary as it was all too often anathema to reasonable action.
“I don’t think you’ve ever been equal to another human being.”
Returning to the origin of his sentience, N cohabited his mind to stretch out his long history within a certain asocial conglomerate. He suspected the corporate vessel of being a decoy for something else but had no palpable evidence. Nevertheless, working on hunches had brought rewards in the past and as it had already been acknowledged that language was “nevertheless” the be-all and end-all, then the apparent indicator of his experience just might have emerged from the sense of his sentience.
N’s method was towards extending the nervous system beyond its natural receptors to integrate with the so-called supernatural. So-called nature (as opposed to man-made nature) could be taken for granted, but if super-nature was to be a part of the technological world then data would be supernatural. N was willing to live with the contradiction.
He toyed with these ideas in conversations with one of the washroom supervisors and an officer at the municipal gallery. Due to a metaphor he had discarded years previously, no-one who shook hands with N ever suspected he was a decoy for a fictional identity. “Nevertheless”…
In a society which almost completely disregarded any purpose or application for sleep, N was up against some major obstacles. It was incumbent upon him to oversee the children of Abraxas, so he scolded them, told them lies and attempted to have them institutionalised.
To know N, you had to remind yourself that whatever he as a character was showing you, it only happened over time. For example, if he abruptly lifted the towel with a measure of carelessness to wipe his neck, then you took note of this, but as there was no onus on you to interpret the action then you observed it within your depths and over time it would in any case make an impression and in the depths below the surface you would get the drift.
If N was to look out the window and see that it was raining outside, then you would over time encounter the how, where, what and why of the intrinsic nature of his mode of observation, because you would have had an imagination. There would be a transference between N’s actions and your reading of them, which in these circumstances are beyond interpretation. He was, after all, a fictional character.
Staking out parched land, an oasis, a small paradise in which to party and repackage belongings, a place to succumb to nightmare or contemplate the humidity, a place of dignity and value, surrounded by palm trees and insects, before the audience were weighed down with their jewellery and fur, their top hats and pocket watches, human beings being human, the lot of them, but not too humane, N said, “Description isn’t everything. It’ll weigh you down.”
“Description isn’t everything,” Lakshmi repeated, as if to question without asking.
The tourists re-grouped at the top of the steps to the temple entrance. They took photographs as tourists are wont to do. They chatted about the weather and items bought at the hypermarket.
As N savoured his last vodka and tonic, he upturned the plate again and stood at the edge of the precipice. He walked towards the palace of heaven onwards over miles and miles of barren land. The ministers of heaven swarmed around the palace, ominously. N winked at them, but they ignored him as a winged horse flew past.
Heaven was a place where nothing bad ever happened, where bliss reigned, but the palace was fenced off, and had been abandoned many centuries ago. For several minutes N stood frozen in fear of fear — mute.
He wore a bright blue robe and sandals and walked with the demeanour of one of the villagers. His beard had been trimmed. As he returned to the encampment, he spied a statue of one of the idols crouched like some bird of prey. His thighs felt thick. Sweat found a home on his skin.
The imagery became stolid with insectoid jibber-jabber, the buzz of manipulated intimations of news media conglomerates, the shifting of blocks of data passing through the columns and walls. If interpretation had outdone itself then it was because the Indian Summer had dried out the vats, re-configured and re-translated to co-ordinate the requisite gobsmacking description.
Fortunately, Lakshmi drew towards N in the tent and engulfed him. When N would awaken, he would feel as if he were a mode of action or an aware movement. For now, though, he resided in sensual ecstasy, the folds of his skin unfurling, his bones swivelling at the joints, click-clack, click-clack.
L untied his mouth, made it red and swallowed in the eclipse of her autocracy, her vanishment once and for all, she turned on the dais, practically unencumbered by all mortal cravings, both satiated and unsatiated, found and unbound in sensual mischief.
The statue of an idol looked on, blood miraculously weeping from its eye.
Sand and dust provided back-beats to the story, seemingly to glorify the dominant regime — coal and charcoal, heat and light, the dirt under the palms in the clockwork order of time, in the shadow of the idol’s tearful gaze.
If a mode of action was the wormhole from which N re-emerged it would not be recorded.
Countless royal personages passed through the encampment on horses and camels, on foot, in carriages, war-like, in illustrious robes and turbans, holy men in tow.
Meanwhile, living in the penumbra, at the altar of currency with upscale elegance, Belladonna got smashed with no remorse. Her purest gain was a black dog logic.
“Damn the flaneurs,” she thought.
She was escaping the route to the elementary stairway, cleaving to open-hearted simplicity, activated by boredom and nihilistic concerns. Concerning the co-ordinates, geology was a priority. Sound waves, cryptograms, machine intelligences were intercepted at the hollow core, and all this was shown on TV.
A clairvoyant plasterer would liken the situation to a kind of silent disarming. None would defer to the miracle harvesters operating their vehicle’s route to the netherworlds, going into the plus sign and encircling the 1800s, where all are welcome, even the figments of greed and anger.
A cursory sound wave and N had gone, spurned by the past, rejected by the future and detached from the present. He was a blood brother in your quest, caused by telepathic memories, glib and flippant. In a vacant repose in the cage of freedom where he had been detained at L’s pleasure, he was controlled and created by what he surrendered to and came upon a lesson: the ceremony of naming.
He’d fast-forwarded to a celestial outpost, lured in by L’s Vampirella fangs and her gladiatoral computations of erotic surfaces. As soon as word got out, N and L were still ahead of schedule. At the outer planets they were at one with atonement.
After their ablutions, another erection, then another soiling, and a reaching up towards the pyramids and papyrus. Their hooves were horned in the fallow morning and in the bravery of beauty. Throbbing in the pulse of sexualised nerve-ends, compelled to join their nerve-ends at the farthest reaches of the breeding grounds of data, as the purest, most merciful violence combined in tender strokes of affection, affecting the muted study room across which pale shadows bore witness to hordes of scarecrows and the beasts of night, scrawled in the dust of data and in the deed, the act of longing and beseeching was becoming.
There was a mouth in the soup of the marketplace of ideas where commodities serve as vomit and malnutrition. The excrement of inspiration was a sentry in a tower eating a piece of fruit on a rocking horse. Data transfer protocols were to climax in cyberspace and be re-imagined as stardust.
Above N’s head, some architext constructed another sky — a sky to beat all others — to envelope the earth up and beyond the true sky [of your childhood and lazy Sundays in the park]. The feeling was almost religious. A temple was a temple where the people looked to people who were wizards and witchdoctors to appease their gods.
He pressed her closely to herself and the glint of a reptile’s flashing eyes turned to data surrounding the jeep as it swerved into the visitors’ area outside the execution chamber. They had no culpability and gained the freedom to utterly transform nature according to their desire for supernature. They had surrendered to their ritual to identify the untruth of facts, to know superstition and faith, knowledge and communication of the past, present and future, even on transitory amoral grounds, meeting in intimacy with a lack of identity or social responsibility, to design their protection. They eviscerated all domains and dimensions with the code of invisibility, synchronous, multiplying into infinity.
The original sin of calling something new by a new name was revealed as the very thought of fiction.