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.
Labels: POEMS BY HARL