This hornets nest of words, gist of the Hymenopteron, is inflated with lead, is clement as the lard that greases the tip...

(...)

In the tremulous conclave
algaebodies disiplined
stuffed in holes
clouds of flesh
touch the uvula through those
mildew-stained nostrils...

And with the erotic scent of burning flesh lingering
he rips the mercurial membrane off the foreign analgesic star
to evade her luminous brightness...

Where then starts the major movement of clandestine exploitation?
Return to the base of your holy mountain, little man.
The low is the hight: now we can face the excremental disaster of our time...
Henceforth all desires are exploitable...

(...)

"Soluble Machine" - H.A.R.L., collage, 2005

automatic drawing - H.A.R.L., ink on paper, 2003

Twelve Pieces of Evidence

Object by H.A.R.L., 2004

This object was conceived as a velvet-draped collection of paranoia-items relating to a specific woman. The desires she inspired caused me to collect the above "twelve pieces of evidence" into this box, which all in a unique way constitutes the aura, or poetic sense, of this woman - the recipient of my mad love.

The bottles contains (from top left to bottom right):

1. Dog Shit
2. Salt
3. Chicken-bone in vinegar (the wish-bone)
4. Curl of dog hair
5. Gold powder
6. Lace
7. Dust
8. Lock of Hair
9. Fragrance Oil (Somali)
10. Metal Stamps from India
11. Soap Crystals
12. Petal

The Iesu Massacre

Object by H.A.R.L, 2004

This Object was the result of a short film produced in 2004. The initial idea was brought forth by the forming of clay-balls and placing them in a rectangular box. The balls filled the box. The box became, due to objective chance, the site for a one-armed plastic crucifix. One inche nails invaded the box, penetrating the clay-balls. Blood flowed. Iesu was massacred, drowned in blood... later hammer-blows anihilated the apperance of clay-balls and weed-balls grew up instead.

(This senario was captured on film and will in time be published on this blog.)

EADEM MUTATA RESURGO

Ah, another day... the solidified self awakens out of its soup of myrriad images called dreaming. Solidified on the surface, bubbling in the depth - being is volcanic, thoughts are magma... Coherence marks the spot, no? The Ego is the coherence-vibration felt as sameness, apprehended as oneness, apprecieved as 'me-myself'. The skin-boundary of the body forms a surface that vibrates in tune with the wavepattern surrounding it. But we know better, don't we? We have been shown the incoherence of our psychological views in splendid poetic visions. Reality to us is a strange multiplicity, a meta-coglomeration made up of an (near) infinity of self-organizing organisms, stratified molecules, energetic wave-patterns and strings, paradoxical monads, forces etc. Are they one or many? Stratified, multidimensional? I do not pretend to know these things, of course. My thinking here expressed in intuitive bursts is surely inadequate and fragmentary to the point of frustration. There are so many brilliant scientists and theoreticians out there, who with clear words in successive order organizes the known for us, for our feeble minds to get drunk on. And I love strong ideas as well. But beside my love for knowledge and the adoration of the magi, I search for something more indistinct I guess, the unknown or the hidden truth behind "the weil of Maya", my conditioned ideas about the world. I do not believe in anything recieved, be it religion, philosophy or any other of the ideological constructs of the present or the past. I "believe" in my reality to the extent that it reappears every time I wake up, but it is in dire need of revaluation - and as I dream it flows out to form imaginary worlds, imaginary beings... imaginary dimensions? I am certainly naive and, hopefully, childish. I feel myself being legion just like a child. Temporality moves my consciousness along spaces of desire, of attractors - of atopoi! But coherently I am pulled together daily by strong forces surrounding me, pulled toghether or kept together by the routines, commonalities, patterns of conventions that forms the sedimented strands of the most immediate lebens-welt around me: gravity of psychogeographical exceptions not withstanding. The world is around me, but also in me. I am in the world, yet not of it. Or I am of the world, yet not in it. Anyway: I am somehow "a being" on a planet I guess, who thinks, acts, writes this blog et al.? I am the humanbeing behind the words. This I have been told by other selfstyled humanbeings who intepreted the meaning of traditions and drew conclusions of common sense as to the overaching definitions of things and no-things. The communism of ideas was born. I was born, they told me, on a sunny sunday at two pm. I consequently started growing. A Growing Structure! That is my strongest impression of Being a being: a being who grows. Evolving, I do not think I will ever stop growing. The nature around me is in a state of constant growth. Death and birth, birth and death. I was born and I will die. The wheel of karma... No escape? I am caught in growth-patterns that simulate wellbeing and pleasant sensations in my brain as cells die and neurons are born. This makes it possible for me to be a productive member of society. I look at myself and feel as if I am happy. Since I am happy I do not doubt. Because I do not doubt I accept, accept the things offered, the state of things that is. The stimulants are doing its job. If I were to cut my flesh/mind off from all the stimulants plugged into it, what would happen then? That "disconnectedness" is the true reason, the supreme reason, for meditating (zazen/vipassana). Not to highten the sense of wellbeing or mental coherence, to feel more alive - but to deprive the mind and the body or all the external connections of stimulation, which perpetuates, stimulates, the illusions of happiness and pleasant sensations at the cost of a full awareness of the whole nature of reality (as suffering?). But this is surely no entertaining practice of self-fullfillment. Short of this extreme meditation, you instead begin to form ideas about the truth of illusion, the truth of the nature of the fragmentary, a fragmentary truth. All in order not to doubt the practice and patterns of the everyday life you live which feels so good. The everyday routines are so precious that they fall outside the line of fire from the meditating animal's most lethal weapon: total self-awareness. Instead: Question everything except your everyday life. If you did your life would crumble and your pleasant ego-idea fall with it into nothingness. If you constantly are feeding yourself, quite willingly, with strong sensations (of whatever kind: thoughts, feelings, arts, entertainments, drugs, foods, physical rubbings etc) you mind gets dull. Instead of strenght and will, which would be the result of such extreme transgressions as hinted about above, you get just another hollywood-movie projected onto the screen you call "your mind". It will then get used to not feeling anything except those pleasant spectacular things beamed onto it and out of this pleasure the Ego-persona is formed as the prefered image of yourself. Thus, they implore you, never doubt... Ah, another day...

THE MOLE
Part One






The mole is my brother, unkilled in the sacred ground. Embarkation: we are ready to invade, attack your sleeping mind. My brother the Mole inside, I on the outside of your skin reaching in to perceive a radiance gone stale.


This is a call to summon and invite, to swim across to a world awake, in the future unseen. We look inside to behold a force that can instruct your misery to turn its thorns the other way. We jump into your ears to come to your mind with a proposition to shine with atomic strength.
"Don't listen, don't hearken to the Others mouth. Go down to the visible entrance on your lower limbs to behold the workings of my brother the Mole. He flows into you from a thousand towns, fastening the hecatomb with bloody pins of roaring laughter. Can you hear him laughing inside you?"

There, sixteen palms called forth the extravagant imitation of a disheartened smile exluded from trance, outflowing eunuch-oil increasing the loss of mind with squanderous spoils of mud.
There, even smaller then smallest, a whirlwind curls in spiraling lines the reflection of an inferior prey, as twisted horns in living swamps. Dip one toe into the harmony of the whole; fill the snail with thunderstricken perplexity.





"You do plaster up the tongue, don't you, with your commerce unmoved?"










Opposite the kindling fire filled with blood the sacrificial night begins...

(...)

The magician of evolution dissolved on her tongue:
"...in your mouth... your mouth... your mouth... the flesh attains its truth by finding itself in absolute dismemberment..."

TO PSEUDO-MOBIUS

I fill with wonder the wound - language is the icon is a mirror, in the mirror an iconoclastic poetic laceration - abhorrent automatism - horrible strings of words like guilded pearls along a creation of borderlines stylized as urine trouble - "better to be pissed off, than pissed on ha ha haaa" - dear chicken hypnosis - my sweet actualization of error - anti-egyptian shapeshifting charlatan bleeding objective paranoia and schitzo-metaphors transformed into oneiric objects initiated into the web - you are matrix rara avis - in a land of strange gods the deicide rules -

Naer jag var ett litet barn

korpen flaxa mellan taenderna

tomrummet fanns mellan haenderna

Socratica

Fama Socratica

vivis ex lapidibus

alle man paa stenarna

stroemma forsen full

platta ormbunken

skaalla flaesket synligt

krattan vek, syrlig aer den, zorro,

syrlig som en liten apa

Socratica=apan som surnar

Where did we come from, where are we going?

To take stock of where/who I am now? No, forgive me, I will not do it. I will spare your worn-out eyes the trouble of details. I confess that I was toying with the "erotic" idea of total nakedness and unobstructed mental sincerity here on this "web-log"in its humble beginning some time ago. Of baring "it" all, no more corners, I told myself, naked for all the connected world to see - it seemed like a playfull challenge. Not that I have any exuberant phantasms of self-agrandizements that need to be plastered onto the collective mytho-mind, but radical mental nakedness as a sort of exercise intrigues me in the midst of the bustling flows of information-packets and hyper-stylized personas, real or imaginary, here on this millitary invention called the internet/worldwideweb. But how do I "bare it all" without again falling pray to the play of surfaces? For surely "truthfullness" would be adamant, no? And offering a "secret window" in on a trembling existenz, the right reason for communicating thus? "Everything else is but yucky masturbation", the priest said.

A Game?

This whole thing (what "thing" are you talking about???) appears to me as a simple surface-thought, a gigantic folded-and-folded-again-surface without end or beginning. But the idea of depth is too but a simple metaphor. Easy listning for the soul... To many a static wanderer, misguided and unclear, hides his confusion in metaphors which riddles the thought-speech with semblances and empty enigmas, empty ruses of poetic actions aborted...

Poetic Actions Aborted

Writing amuzes me tremendously. What a silly thing it is, amidst worldwar, famine and disease and the rest, to muse in solitary confinement. What a waste. Inventing virtual personas is a pseud-literary enterprise without serious implications anywhere. "I dream of real action", the ego-brain squeezes out of its drying foam. Beyond the toyland of words, more words appears. But the bottom has fallen out of the militant revolutionary poetico-criticism of old and now all is but surface.

Back to Bataille!

On the brilliant surface dances a billion voices incarnated in a billion little flies and a billion images reflect their innocent cries: "The world has become the simulacra of an insect-cave. The cave is an elevator without floors. No stop. Only upward motion. Elevator-music suggestively indistinct suffuses the air!" Hey, Black Orpheus, can you hear the soft jazz inviting you to shop? Can you feel the slow motion tugging at our reinforced heels, dragging your mentalities along the canonball of adds? Metaphors abiding inside malls, malls abiding inside our heads. Metaphors legion in the mind/flesh, as spoken language is most metaphorical when it is most abstract, and life most concrete in the store.

Who's keeping the fight alive?

Some individuals may be able to exact their verbal incisions precisely and perform micro-functions for Big Business and be content at bedtime of being most definitely a valuable functionary of the historical machine. "What else can an ant do? But doing what feels good, striving for sacred happiness, cheap as it is now!" Tugging slogans eat at your minds, dear children of Sol. Feel it! Charred it is and rough at the edges. No wonder "creativity" is so hard to come by these days. "Art" is a mere making, sedimented concepts of tradition bundled together in glossy magazines or threedimensional spurting from the screen. Willingly, the functionaries lets their romantic fashions of childhood be lulled into the belief of uniqueness - all to propagate the stereotypical in a new way. The New! Because the physical craving of the new is the strongest of all, thanks to conditioning, even the nerves of dogmatists and fundamentalists non-contradicts this as the media-murmur turns even them into degenerated imbecills high on creditcards and war. The flanks are lined with functionaries of all colors, denominations, backrounds... Those things are organizing principles, not essenses defining being. Being is a deadening silence in our sparetime. War is...

Is there more to "Art" than mere making?

Raw: I use my nose to guide me through the labyrinthine structure of commersialism by day and my ears at night to follow the bat and the cricket away, away... Nomadic desires, fleeting passions not-yet colonized by suger-water babies... hear the silent laughter of universal dimensions resonate in concrete halls lined with reflecting mirrors and all-seeing eyes. Destroy the hierarchical networks! Free the unrealized antennae and the neutered adorment of simplicity. Our senses work for us and against us. The key is to sift through the pebbles of sense-perceptions as a sorting-machine sifts the sand of a stream and place them under the advertisment obstructing the wind. Horror Vacui!

Watch it sink...

We have been fighting "the reversed terrorism" since the inception of Empire thousands of years ago. Against Empire, we have been clearminded in that we have not totally abandoned reason, but instead enlarged it, extended its scope to it outmost limits and beyond. We have been clearminded enough and full of awareness to call a spade a spade and a fascist a fascist, -no matter how they stylize or "personifies" themself in the churning media-molasses of their making. Inculcated by a myriad of two-way mirrors, we have finally vacated the premesis, left our old shells to be hung and our dull weapons to be hailed as "tropes empty of meaning". Maybe we actually became empty ourselves at one time as we fought the anti-terrorism inside our own heads with toyguns. Maybe that was the telos of bureaucrats, capitalists, generals, businessmen, model-women, police, politicians, backyard-dads, soccermoms and the rest of the pack of teachers, priests, gurus, prophets, bankers, teve-personalities and celebrities et al. - to empty the content of our minds to the extent that our own inner illuminations and insight(hard-won in on the battleground of play, poetic or banal), would seem alien to us ourselves, in order perhaps for us to totally disregard the multitude of voices whispering about outside about reason and revolt, poetry and sacred play, freedom and love - to instead obediently fall in line, row upon row, in school, at work, at home, in church, the public square, the supermarket... etc.

hy·men·ol·o·gy (hm-nl-j)
n.
The branch of anatomy and physiology that deals with the structure, function, and diseases of the membranes of the body.
Sources=Sources 8;hm_med()

Hymen

virginal membrane; a thin crescentic or annular membraneous fold partly occluding the vaginal external orifice of the vagina

suchness and spontaneous artificial paradises
these paradises are produced not to impart something
suchness the disappearence of all problems
when hungry eat
when tired sleep

"If he is to be one who thinks for himself, an autonomous philosopher with the will to liberate himself from all prejudices, he must have the insight that all the things he takes for granted are prejudices, that all prejudices are obscurities arising out of a sedimentation of tradition - not merely judgements whose truth is as yet undecided - and that this is true even of the great task and idea which is called 'philosophy"' - E. Husserl

digitalized horror in the post-human era...

my dear

unborn bliss

play with clay...

until WWIV

consumes us all

The Quarry

"Nature folded in fractal memories, vibrations and silence, as if in her veins ran lightning rather than water, as if her bodies where flesh rather than stone. Growthpains generates structures searching for the sun; human labour a pulsating creative/destructive emanation which extends the embrace of meaning all around. As natural beauty is the trace of the identical/nonidentical; the human hand the evanescent objectified and summoned to duration and enthropy."

- G. d'Anjou-Lepic

From 'PLOMB DANS LE FILLET'

(...)

-"He called it a sur-materialist's a-poetics... 'an a-symmetrical flow-field of unconscious production interrupted by funnel-like consciousness at irregular intervals. Consciousness or whatever name you wish to give it, I mean the awareness thus ingrown to form a transparent network of immaterial regulations, a rhitzome, inside the Mind-mold. Thin sheets, a network of hairs, interrelated at every point- or folded nodescapes of string-like-layers, interconnected dimensions in a sense like a wig inside the skull, - it funnels, directs, and are shaped by this dark ludic energy outside without shape or form, located as it is in mindful absolute noos-space as well as in the mega-verse as a whole as a holistic formation...' and she showed me his sack where she kept the net. Like an enormous attractive presence in the sack, the philosopher's head sprung open and lead inside drew us near, until we were consumed by his brain. The lead in the net pierced through the core of the earth and straight to the universe before location the center in our souls. At that moment we became present throughout the universe, simultaneously we had become time-space itself. Pure gold. Pulse Being. Lost in what seemed like an eternity, we were suddenly and violently pulled out of our bliss and back into the template of the reality efflorescent. Seconds ticking away, the gravitational attraction came like from nowhere. This enormous but still gentle force lovingly pulled our attention away from that funnel of sheets it so erotically displayed for us as eternity. It was shy to show us that it was the point of all points, the only monad, the one substance constituting the megaverse, the noosphere, reality and thought. It drew us near, we pushed towards it's invisible center located in our own minds. But just as instantaneously as before we were back in our old clothes in the bowels of the world again. We had entered a critical phase on Tellus Earth, he assured me of this in ni uncertain terms. From now on, he said, we were both in the world, but yet not of it".

"The heap of sand led to an image of a ghost in his dream."

From 'Coma Berenices'

This will be, it so happened,
who will awaken me?
As bark begins to grow
around my body,
in the darkening deep
your body,
the elusive silver fish,
opened the sluices to its self.

Beheaded,
Lepus lies directly below
Orion's feet.




The bloody stump is of gigantic size
and strength;
through long horizon of quiet air,
the remains of a supernova
drank in the blood,
sent a scorpion to kill
and restrain the culprit
embedded inside a cloud.

Beehive of the celestial dome,
in its elastic body flask-shaped
a secret juice
swelled hot like a meteor in flight,
to sprout its catastrophic supremacy.

To the son of Helios: If I should speak
a lie and gave the impression to be an
undulating rhythm of the swimming dragon,
(withered by my heat,
taint the waters of your sacred streams)
drown me in a vat of honey,
aslant beneath the fore-skin as
Coma Berenices hair.

Provide tragic evidence
and measure vastness of space.
Large she is and bright, beautiful dark,
with golden horns, -
which she drove into the octupus' head
oscillating above the pole
and said "it is the joyous rain".

I felt the blackness come...

sleeping make a wave-reflecting sphere
descend towards the earth, the soil, the flesh
unconsciousness of the universe sleeping
meditation fixed
for your gallantry slave-face
with its silence bent
and framed with hectic light
softly fluttering
the words broke forth

to soon

Collage by H.A.R.L., 2006

The neutered adorment of simplicity.

Drunk on her own tenderness, the ancient mother reaps the human harvest in absentia to transubstantiate her seeds into a materialized flow of signs signifying the machinic phylum. The Irrational Animals hunched before the dance of her chromosomal movements as she cut the nodes from off their bodies to insert them into the imago of her womb. Vagina Dentata. The mother is a cannibal. She has lingered in the fleshy periphery since the dawn of time, eaten at the limbs, crossed off all sacred organs from the map of erogenous zones. She is the ghost inside the Machine, she introduced slumber and void in the organic rhizome of desire, culminating in the insipid momentum of death which reifies the dreamed of reflections of a total and holistic life lived in vain...

Ashes to ashes and yet
I was teased.

THE CHARLATANS II Collage by H.A.R.L, 2005

I M E

Giordano Bruno 1548-1600

Before the fructification of the Tellus within

become the other planet in the primordial darkness...

oh, translucent skeleton, your sumptuous gift annuls in the ravishing sun of creativity... he, who emanating to impress, contorts to convert the Iris of the Moon in your Eye... We are but an ocean alone lodged deep into the dark and empty spaces inbetween... ah, Bardo Thodol, let's listen...

THE CHARLATANS Collage by H.A.R.L, 2006

FIRST & AS LAST: MORE REALITY!

The exploration has begun...

The mindflesh of the fleshmind, vibrating in its nervous fluids, erups into ludic reality... as magma flows erratic, it heats the flesh, evaporation ensues, condensation gathers in reflecting drops on the inside of the skull...

If we come to the search for inimical realities with a broken foot, the seed of our protestations will undoubtedly fail. A seed is brimming with pain, but if it dries up, the shell is a brain.

We deplore the static chuckles of sedimented miserabilists... we tap our mind not to float out of our bodies. But we can not stop it. The atmosphere is filled with invisible tongues, stretched out in wavepatterns, fornicating vividly...

We are a collective.

This is a collaborative effort, a ludic exploration.

We wish to plant your eggs in our bodies... our offspring will be legion. Beautiful! Together we will inseminate the sedimented bodies with enigmas of marvelous proportions...

Daily and nightly we will roam, drifting along meridians of lust, of chance, of black humor. We willingly give up control to lose ourselves in the passions of poetic-chance to find the signs hidden beneath routines, behind the all-to-ordinary decor. Our drifting has taken us far, far away from the stable constructs of civilized man. We became animals again. We regurgitated the collected semen of recieved ideas to change our conditioned minds to apprehend a becomming not-yet revealed. We became insects in the midst of men, winged parasites with sharpened stingers among the crowds. Hands unconsciously flapping all around us, the slowmotioned movements of deadened survivalists easily missed us as we organized our attacks and stung the crowd-beings behind the ears. It has begun... it has begun to be noticed, the pulsating eggs inside the brains of herded sheep-men and woman. It feels, they whisper to us, like a pleasant pressure, a slight rubbing motion just behind the eyes, that is a source of tremendous well-being and pleasure: a finger gently pressing on the spine, massaging the nerves...

Thus it began....