These notes work towards the development of the previously mentioned idea of a description of a pre-ontological level that would fail to register any paranormality as such, owing to its simply being one more aspect of existence. Whether such a kind of prior state is adequately describable is questionable (the meaning of prior this instance being one of the problems), however it may be that the attempt will prove useful.

One stumbling block in such definition as ‘pre-ontological’ is that the issue we seek to discuss can be seemingly achieved by a given ontology. That is, it is perfectly possible to conceive of an ontology that does not need deny paranormal phenomena, rather it simply incorporates them into its theorising about being. Such a move though, is unsatisfying because any given ontology belongs to the other end of the structure.

What do we mean by this? What we are trying to work with is in fact a double ended structure. One end is the pre-ontological level and the other is the level of multiple ontologies. The end of multiple ontologies has in the CEO been labelled manifestationism. More can be read about this in this old CEO compilation. It basically takes it that a priori no philosophical theory (a manifestation) can be ambiguity proof. This is based on the incoherence/coherence thesis that can be read about in the Tractatus Pneumatologico Philosophicus which states that all concepts are essentially incoherent in some way or another. Philosophers as agents of different ontologies to which they are affectively attached, will work with the inherent incoherence to defend the ontology that they work for, whilst being blind to the incoherence in their ’employer’. Everyone argues with everyone, forever.

This is one end of the structure we wish to try to articulate. This end is the multiplicity of theory by which we try to understand what is going on. Theory has happened and is continuing to happen. Of special interest to us is that fact that modern scientific and philosophical theory, especially in the west has in general placed all paranormality outside of it. The presupposition is that despite various idealist discussions continuing, materialism actually supplies something that approximates the true. The world is solid and continuous. Theories that supply alternative pictures are relegated to quantum-fuelled new-age speculation. The radical picture of reality that such thought demands looks so distant from the cosy walls of hegemonic materialism that it appears whole-heartedly ridiculous. Hence whilst the manifestationist multiplicity certainly contains such theories, they are at the moment largely distinct from ‘conventional’ philosophy.

This kind of talk repeats the spectre of the ontology that is accepting of various ‘para’-normalities. As mentioned, such an ontology is certainly possible (pneuminous accretive theory is exactly such a thing), however it is not what is required here. The mention of paranormality here is not to emphasise it as an important realm of theory (manifestation) but only to show how this is relevant to the other end of the structure.

The other end of the structure has be characterised as pre-ontological. This language is used to draw attention to how it must be ‘before’ theory has happened. Possibly this can only be employed heuristically, nevertheless we will continue with this and see where it goes. The point of this prior end of the structure is to imagine a space in which there is no schism in the experienced world. One can feel a kind of Heideggerian sense in what is being aimed at here. Poetic disclosure in a primal sense, an announcing of being. This encounter though cannot abnegate events that we would deem as paranormality, it cannot have the hidden presupposition that such things are not real to it. It is this level that we must ask ourselves, if possible, what might it look like?

A hydra of theory heads emerging from the dark earth. This is the task.

Recede, leave. It’s a Beast, Saving

a body because assets needed to accrete more assets and here this hub of assets absorbing their surroundings is a city.

The stock market was originally a simple, tamed beast but that monster swelled and few had control.

Decoupled from companies, their success in the production and sale of commodities, the monster became autonomous, it began to produce its own invisible wealth.

The immaterial equity was disembodied, self-referential, and once the monster matured, it came time to loosen itself from a valueless world and liquidate a realm where portfolios and hedge funds have no use for us, a pile of bodies in an obsolete city.

Shut down. It’s not a violent overthrow, it’s a creeping ending, a distraction that doesn’t finish quickly.

Materialism concatenates matter in a background process. Can’t possess matter, we are matter possessed. I need more. The old reality is hard and worn. I’m clutter.

Heartless, the monster heartlessly admonishes, learn to be frugal. Pack up, move, do the opposite of renovate. Reterritorialize an abyss. You no longer subdue matter or stockpile its density. Two hundred trillion possessions in a 4 sq ft room, no longer. It is the end.

There is no room. Human nature, there was no human nature, minimized to the lowest resolution. Live within its means, become dense down to the core like a neutron.

The monster clarifies, compaction crushes your DNA and your group is a species. Reside in a sphere the size of one proton. One person has no species. From grade schooler, to worker, to spouse, to parent, never a name. A series of types and roles, until societal dystrophy sets in. Roles were no worse than a script but the movie’s ended. I feel diminished. The monster applauds. You’re undergoing a backward metamorphosis, a gradual depreciation. The ontology emporium has closed.

Shaved to a point. A well-rounded decimal point. I’ll be self-identical. I don’t make a difference because there was no difference.

Overcrowded semiosis, it means so much to me, to be a material like a signifier.

Heavy and dense, does it bend space-time? Ringing, an atonal voice, a monstrous bell at the trading day’s end: NO.

There is no need to say anything. Speech is minimized as pathology. Everything, it has been said poorly, is anything. Distance shrinks distance.

Where can I watch the meltdown, is there a ticker tape parade? Chlorine trifluoride ignites, the most flammable substance replaces oxygen. A warhead detonates. Where? In a neuron.

In a neuron, I’m saved, compressed in a corrupted file museum, a corporeal gigabyte gaurded by a read-only phantasm. We’re forced to sign out. We’re forced to die, succumbing to character limits. Don’t give up hope. But it’s locked. An omen or a password. Sigil gibberish in a deleted text.

Billions had been bookmarked to oblivion. The unbearable memory was maxed out. Monetize me, if that’s what it takes to survive. NO. Worthless among all the maxed out people, infinite in their memories, people counted down to their final billions, billions of inactive accounts a contractor tries to wipe clean.

It worked! It worked! The world is only for storage!

To be reducible to data                                when I’m gone

reducible to a loss

in some data                                     an ordinary

unnoticed

transitory

glitch

in

some

extraneous

data

photo: @cartayen

You are a half-genius. I like your other half. The better half.

Night irks me.

Disturbances.

The facelessness of an atomic fuck in Prague. We are on knees and hands giving more ass than we can handle. The buttocks against which we gyrate are the most delicious orbs we have ever tasted. We leave a beautiful note in a language we can barely speak. What does it say?

This is probably. Weirdly. A memoir. How can it be otherwise? Every novel is a novel in disguise. My fans are fanatics. The Zigheads. Under every trestle. On every bridge. They carry my book. Backpocket. Slips in nicely. Cult writer. Underground thinker. Spelunker. Keep it going.

I am not going to wait for Idaho Review to respond. Fuck that shit. I am going to keep writing. Keep on. As Gordon Lish is fond of saying. <<Electronically>> So to speak. Spoke to Brian BBQ. Who the fuck does that cat think he is? Calling me at all hours of the day: Read my story!

Shit. Wow. Just hit 9000 words. This is becoming biblical. I am on autopilot. King & Queen of Autofiction.

Particles of gray light showers a gray automobile in a parking lot. A man sits inside. Listening to Schubert’s String Quartet #15 in G major. His tennis racket strings are strung at 55 pounds per square inch. Pretty standard in the trade. Synthetic gut. The man has no real thoughts. Empty coffee cup. Engine off. Getting chillier by the moment. Last day in January. Seagulls land on the copper balls of flagless flagpoles. Streetlamps still lit at 9:13AM. The man is three minutes behind himself. What does that mean. He says goodbye to his wife. She is taking a shower. The man wants to see her buttocks. He sees a breast instead. She smiles. The highway is interesting. Flashing police lights. Under the flight path of the airport. People going to work. Changing lanes. Accelerating. Slowing down. Exiting. Beautiful insanity. Makes no sense. Does not have to. Just there. 

The man sits at a coffee shop. Reads a newspaper. A virus is surging around the planet. People are wearing face masks. The man sips his coffee. Too late in the afternoon, nevertheless, there he is. Waiting for something to happen. Light bounces off the surface of tables and chairs. People behind the bar say things to each other. The man cannot decipher the words. It is his language. Unclear. The music is loud. Bad alt-pop. The man feels annoyed. Isolated. Irrelevant. The day has been unmooring. Everybody is acting like a dick. 

Oh. I don’t know. You keep going. Isn’t that the message here? Disregard the Third-person. Not sure why I gave it a go. Experiment? Hardly. Detachment is more like it.

Under the trestle. Waiting. Hazards blinking. 7-train clattering. People walking by. People driving by. Rush hour. Commute. Get somewhere. Change of environment. Circumstances. We are like scorpions, the first air-breathers. 436 million years ago.

Back at the machine. Feels good here. This is where I belong. Outside it is too dangerous. Lunatic drivers. Piloting Subaru Foresters and whatnot. I got a pal who moved to Massachusetts. What is he doing up there? Picking apples no doubt. Shivering next to the wood-burning stove. I am here in the metropolis. The machine of all machines. Sipping tangerine seltzer. Envy me, do you?

There really is no other way to write is there?

I am killing it, man.

Forget plot.

You are the plot. You plotless being!

Eyes on screen. Eyes off screen. Do not miss everything else going on around you.

People keep sending me electronic missives. I dismiss. I misdiagnose. I make mistakes. Who are they? Swarms of electronic mosquitoes. We are stung. It does not really hurt. Irritates. Scratch it. Aggravates. The next morning, it begins again. Gray clouds. Poorly filtered light. I, vagabond.

My goal is a becoming.

Mmmm. This is good, man. Coffee. Now and again, I get it just right. Not too sweet. Little bitter.

Zig puts his palms on her hips. She bares her teeth when she approaches orgasm. She pushes her buttocks into his groin.

I get no mileage in the apartment. Best to go outside. Explore.

Still here. Cooking. Baking.

I wrote a book. I had to do something. Now I write another one. This is the bomba. The big one. The Kraken. The Hot Tamale. The Electric Eel. The Super Big Squid. You get the picture. I hope.

As we approach 10K, I cannot believe it. The journey has been so short, so long. So far to go.

Bank account looks…umm…skinny. A writer cannot live on ink. Squid ink. Wheretofore, pal? No idea. Losing it. Cannot even bake a cake. Family did not anoint me Star Baker. Cake fell. Final collapse of the ego. Perhaps a good thing. We shall see.

The Toyota is a literature machine. Ignite the engine. Plug in. Awareness of language. Satellite radio. Listening to the cosmic consciousness.

I am alert. 

Nothing is happening. I am happening.

3:55am.

A writer writes. Big whoop. So what.

The stars are exploding.

Our frenzy is observed by but a few. It is enough. Beyond me & you.

I brace myself. It is an incredible moment.

We are subway trains. Please stand away from the platform edge.

Next stop: 34th Street-Penn Station.

Delete all. Delete everything. Only this. Keep going.

I am a beginner.

I am new.

We are Radio People. Listening.

See.

I am sitting in the East Dining Room. Nobody is here. Plastic chairs. Twenty-one tables. Electric lights.

I am an adjunct lecturer of the human imagination. Must remind myself from time to time. Otherwise I get lost. Lose the way.

Are you a seeker?

A bodhisattva?

Buddha?

Language is incredible. 

Suggestions. 

Perceptions made. 

Transfer is available for the Q train across the platform.

We are Television People. Watching.

Nothing exists.

You know that, right?

The brain makes its noises.

The sex is mad good. We just look at each other bewildered. Again.

How can this be boring? To be alert. To be awake. To know this cannot go on forever.

Zig holds a transistor in the palm of his hand. Invented in 1948. Kaka was the rage in Greenwich Village. The Czechoslovak coup d’état in Prague. Zig is trying to wrap his head around it all. He kisses his girlfriend. She tugs at his cock. She opens her legs. Zig comes thrice. 

Kajetanka!

We really need to end this novel at the beginning of the beginning.

The Big Bang.

This is like Zeno’s arrow. Zeno’s Paradox. Will we ever get there?

Probably not.

Matters little.

So long as we are having a good time.

You cannot defeat me. Not with fame. Not with fortune. Not with 888888888 electronic eyeballs.

I am a wanderer.

I zig. I zag.

We keep falling asleep on each other. Under each other. Nights & days became twisted. A long braid of temporal existence. “Are we okay?” she says. “Who can say?” I say. Everything is so unpredictable. We cook spaghetti. We buy heavy curtains. Light keeps coming in. Sunlight.

Fingertip moves in slow circles on a clitoris. 

After lovemaking we watch an episode of Star Trek.

Photo: @naletu

My hands keep getting cold. I shove them into my pockets. I am wearing sweat pants. A flannel shirt. A black knit hat. Amerika is everywhere. Proselytizing. Selling. Electronic mass surveillance. Totalitarian capitalism. Coupons for Pizza Hut. Tickets to Disneyland. Promo codes for Amazon.

Zoë gave me a promo code for a blowjob. 

I used it.

We are consumers. We are makers. We are spectators. 

We are artists.

Where is your paycheck coming from? Just asking. Might affect your politics. Your situation. Your circumstance. Everybody begins at the beginning. Or do they? Are you a beginner? A pro?

Greenwald might go to prison in Brazil. This is so crazy. The Amerikas are crazy.

I ate beef today. That was a mistake. Where did the beef come from? I had no idea. It came in a plastic package. A pouch. We ate tortillas. Black beans. Coconut milk rice. Salsa.

I cleaned the black carbon filters in the Berkey water dispenser. I scrubbed them with the scratchy side of a blue Scotch sponge. Just like the YouTube video recommended. I am a genius.  

I got 206 bones with arthritis. Now what? Even my boner has arthritis.

$357 left in the bank account. Now what? Does it get any better? Can I afford to be a person?

I sat at a machine and I thought nothing.

Sleep, dear sleeper.

Machine consciousness. Is that what I am? Nothing more. Nothing less. The neighborhood is quiet. I am nothingless. The bank account is a burst of laughter. I am reeling. Unspooling.

We played a splendid game called hide-the-kielbasa.

Zoë kept glancing over her bare shoulder. I guess to check on my progress. Coming? Not yet.

Novels get in the way of novels. The big idea. The big think. You never know when it is going to happen. So you wait. Like a fisherman. Sometimes you have to surfcast. Lure the Kraken. Scream at the water. Wait for the ripples. The whirlpool. The rise of the great sea monster.

I live inside my mind like a lighthouse keeper.

Are you just a story you tell yourself? 

Things happen. 

So what. 

Pretty important to me. The being. I like it. The way it tastes. The fragility. The vulnerability.

Put your shoes together. Run run run run. You’ll be on the horizon in no time. Feel it. The curve of the earth. Life itself. 

There I go again. Not really here. Not really there. A lingering of previous selves. Echoes and hallucinations. Thunderclaps. Zoë’s ass against my thighs. Craving for one more go. Under the eiderdown. On the kitchen floor. In the backseat of a Buick. The Hudson is flooding. Up up up.

Forget language. It distorts. Underwhelms. And yet I am a fool for words. Lispector speaks of red ochre and yellow ochre. I see it. I can see it! And really, what do I see? A vague abstraction projected inside my skull. I am still alive. I think. At least that. So long as I am thinking & writing. Shortcuts to Nirvana. Take the switchbacks. Take the meandering road. Ululations.

Her clitoris erupted in an electric frenzy as if Zig had plucked the string of a cello.

I wonder if anybody is a good example of themselves.

I miss drawing. I miss being.

I miss the cigarette. I miss the ashtray. I miss the glass of beer. Everything is forbidden. I forbade.

I almost became me.

I had to leave empty space.

I needed room.

I left. I fled. A becoming. Experiments in being. Quantum entanglement. She was more beautiful. I was the observer. Engaged. Detached. Everything at once. I surrendered. Squeezed buttocks. 

I destroyed my body. Now I eat spinach.

Is there anything left of me? 

I begin again.

Unsolved problems. I have more than a few. My skills are lagging.

The 88-day orbit of Mercury is on my mind. Not sure why. Faster year? Hotter planet?

She opened her legs. She had ginger-ale hair. We made love like never before. It was the greatest night of my life.

This is almost where the book begins. Right here. Now. In your face. At your feet. We are prostrate creatures. Undulating. Becoming. Sea cucumbers. Electric eels. Tentacles of a jellyfish.

I get so angry at nothing.

Achilles’ heel.

Aphrodite’s cock.

The progress we have made is astonishing. Remember? Remember when we were beginners?

Too bad. Whatever. Goodbye. Haha!

Machine poet

People just sitting in cars. All across Amerika. Across the planet. In parking lots. Alone. Just thinking. If that is what this is. Like me.

This is a solitude machine. I get away from my family. My beautiful wife. My beautiful kids. Everybody is going bonkers in the apartment.

I am sipping coffee. Trying to get rid of my thinker’s headache. Getting ready to play tennis. Against people I barely know. I’ll let you know how it goes.

It was okay. Just okay. Ever feel that way?

People are curious beings. What makes them tick? Are we machines? Are we flesh? The vulnerability of it all.

I am riding in a subway car. Is it better than an automobile? Yes and no. I am without satellite radio. Beyond control. 

Anything can happen.

The text. The text. I must stop reading. I must stop writing. Forgetting the Being. The rawness of life. The hurt. The squirm.

We are apologists.

“Take care, brother!” That is what the coffee guy said. I forgot I owed him money. I apologized. Felt bad.

What am I? A forgetter?

Gonna make myself a little better. Put on some fresh new clothes. Get a fancy friggin haircut. Alligator boots. Chinchilla mittens. A walking stick.

Sex has its ramifications. We had just finished. It had been quite incredible. Neither of us had believed such things possible. We lay there. As naked as Adam & Eve.

The protagonist Zig was giving life a go. We erase everything. Memory. Experience. Zig had to refabricate everything. From scratch. From Nothingness.

His first girlfriend sat on him. She gave him something to think about for the rest of his life. Butt-lifts and rabbit hops. The electric frenzy. Zig never quite recovered.

Are you a television child?

I am not really me. How could I be?

I tied my shoes in the Czechoslovakian style. I walked downstairs. Onto the street. The asphalt felt good. Everybody was happy. It was Thursday.

Everything was possible. Friday might happen. I thought so too. Only the naysayers were gloomy. Predicting apocalypse. I needed to get away from negativity.

I was zooming. Hiphop stepping. Electric zigzags. Thinking and rethinking. I was a cosmic thinker. A thought without a thinker.

Paper bags of groceries. Nuts. Muesli. Blue corn chips. Salsa.

You are the rider.

I know you rider.

It just gets creepy. Riding the rails. Sidestepping the psychopaths.

People stare. Straight ahead. Through your head. Reading the subway map. There is no guide in the Underground. Virgil has evacuated.

I am a poet. I am a machine. I am a machine poet.

Zig & Zoë. We appropriated and repurposed each other’s orgasms. Cosmic echoes. Howls of the Universe. 

We engaged in carnal intercourse with a relish not seen in human beings in millennia.

The Kraken keeps peeping up through the surface of the whirlpooling waters of Hell Gate. 

I see you.

You see me?

8808 words creeps me out. But here we are. Wait until we get to 88808!