1 (a movement)
To be god(s)-forsaken: to sense divinity, to stumble upon its signs (to have at least that one, memorable time, been a sign of divinity), but to have pathways elude you.

The outsider mystics, their painstakingly codified systems of (non-)knowledge found sometimes in both basements and attics, both living rooms and tombs: in all of their splendour and candour, in all their wealth, they are all predicated on a gliding, veil-piercing movement.

To know the movement (is to know that the veils are infinite). To partake in raptures, in instantaneous instants of being-taken, or being-wave-swept. To have mastered the technique of a burning point whose scintillations inaugurate paradox: the pendulous continuum; to live through methods of sense derangement and to lick the funkiest underbellies.

Never, however, to be invited onto the flights of ever-penultimate fancy about the likes of which you read in codices, in grimoires, in encrypted files.

In other words, to suffer through a god(s)-forsaken mode of environing: to be unable – when a glide occurs and a power is seduced into being-experienced – to harness that power, and to be incapable of fuelling with that power a mythopoeic (en)act(ment).

To choke on a ghost.

2 (wastelands)
To question whether they should have harnessed it and put it to work rather than tremble.

To remember that they have all remembered that ecstasy is in the gap, or is the gap – whatever one feels upon inserting one’s carnality into an other orifice – even if they would never admit the accuracy of ambiguity.

Iconophilia: to subvert encryption by loving the cipher; or by destroying the crypt instead of opening the catacombs of the alphabet. To be without a crypt, without a tombstone: to no longer be banished into absence and separated from a(n after)life of disintegration, dispersal, alien nutrition.

A wasteland may be a realm in decay, plagued by the incompetent rule of a limping king. In spite of that, a different wasteland: to squander is to sanctify. To be holy while being trash, intoxicated and meditating atop a pile of corpses. “I’m a poison worm, I thrive on poison.”1

To contemplate is to designate a temple space: a place for contemplation. To contemplate a system is to effect a (hypo)stasis. There are subsystems contained within metasystems which are simultaneously subsystems of other metasystems, but to suppose a system is to vivisect a preselected section of something not larger, but simply faster – to cut off a stem and proclaim it dead even as it sprouts new leaves, to ignore the fact that everything glitches.

To glide is to glitch. To fall off the map, but onto what territory?

Demons have been put inside the body of flesh, of earth, of all the elements. Angels are posited on the outside of these bodies. To move past these hypostases: towards non-spatial motion: towards emotion. To go neither demonward nor angelwards. To go awkward: in the wrong direction.

To collapse onto yourself is to receive the gift of the rift. Into the outer they have carved the inner, so that the inner seems to be inside, or in the middle of the world. Or: the map shows an exterior, an interior, and something in between, a middle realm: skin, membrane, the media realm.

Koanic query: if there is a middle realm and an interior, which one is more in the middle?

To collapse onto yourself is to receive the gift of the rift, the rift being the gap through which viral movements pass, and thus through which perpetuation occurs.

“Haunted by the idea of knowing what the key to the mystery is, a man becomes a reader of detective novels.”2 “Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison.”3 To write is to send letters from the bone prison of written word.

Quest: to perpetuate the possibility of sainthood in a god(s)-forsaken wasteland.

3 (to follow your sound tracks)
To grieve for reverberation in architecture, to fear its death in lived experience: to track tracks for tracks’ sake is paramount and tantamount to attending to voices in decay. To hear is not to listen, or are you always tricked?

Heteroglossia: those who voice themselves through you are many, but this can still be orthodox, which is to say homogeneous; all hail the spine spire. Heterodoxy: those who voice themselves through you are many, and they bring with them heterogeneity; are you sure there’s only one tooth per socket in those velvet, violet gums of yours? Alternatively, you may trace the curvature of a previously unknown rib.

To, upon speaking, scrape your tongue on the bristled multitudes that populate you. To recognize that you are a medium, a mediating body, a rift elemental. To reverberate is to be made of multiple echoes.

And yet, those (and many other) things: to unfurl like a budding fern, that is to say to reveal nothing but the unfurling, the movement; to trust that you have received a message in (y)our sleep – to challenge your world to warrant such trust.

If to abandon transcendence is to assume it has already been achieved, then to undertake katabasis is to exit existence. Existence: a fortress of hypostatic transcendence, an error which no longer wants to err. The bone prison.

Regardless, to pursue transverberation and attain the state of grace alongside which “the heart receives, it knows not how or whence, a blow as from a fiery dart.”4

To sustain transverberation is to be pierced through (a shiver is sent down the spine spire, a quake shakes the ouroboric ribcage). Subsystems within metasystems within subsystems within metasystems ad nauseam; a hypostatic body of echoes transverberates itself, inserts itself into an other orifice.

Labyrinthine metamorphosis: to glide is to glitch is to be pierced in a veil-piercing movement, which is not to say that it is simply you who are the veil. To say so would be to merely homogenise.

A machine carries on carving insides into outsides, and you cannot leave the machine without remaining inside the opposition of in and out that is now carved inside you. It is of no use to exit into or enter out of; the machine is still in order, powered by the ugliest myth. Gone, went to the other shore, or are you still swimming? Were you ever not swimming? Thus, to abscond (is often to sound like the reverberating decay of a high-pitched chime).

Question?

Note
To have ventured with the following companions:
Georges Bataille2 (a sorcerer’s apprentice),
Bruno Schulz (a mythopoet extraordinaire),
T.S. Eliot3 (a Knight of the Round Table),
Michael Kirkbride (a loremaster),
Ramprasad Sen1 (a goddess’ poet),
Timothy Morton (a dark ecologist),
Jean Baudrillard (a shadow dancer),
R. Murray Schafer (an ear-cleaner),
Hildegard Westerkamp (a soundwalker),
Saint Teresa of Ávila4 (a heart-pierced lover),
Dorothea Tanning (a sleepy alchemist),
Julia Kristeva (an investigator into the nature of milk skin).

Paweł Markiewicz is author of poesy as well as of thinkful flash fiction and essays. Pawel was winner of a 2019 poetry competition in Ybbs, Austria, winning second place.

 

I am standing before a cute mirror, therethrough looking, and I see there Prometheus, his torches with fires, a weird-like ash, a poetical comet as well as the words >youthhood of studies< in a golden frame. I want currently to frame my thoughts barely (smell but excellent!). Prometheus is a handler of the politics of golden habits. He epitomizes the politics for the sake of the neediest. His three torches denote three sorts of human, namely the needy (and the homeless), the old and ill (and the captives and freedmen as forensic diseased (themis-like = themis-soulswards). These squads of people should be special, provided by each country. All and sundry ill, indigent and old would have a claim to the lump of money of EUR 2020 net per month. The sums correspond a year, thus in year 2021 the money will obtain EUR 2021. It should become a sacred duty of each land. The legislation, that is able to regulate this, would be called a golden law. Forwhy does it seem to be so divine? The torches withal flames are however untouchable (Stop! Danger. Do not touch!). One shall never bicker with the fire. Prometheus carries with oneself a horseshoe (with the number 50, so 50 Euro as necessary wage floor and statutory minimum wage per hour of work. Thus it must rule in each land). The other politics, a contrario too, is called the politics of charm-like ashes.

Herein any perpetual principles are not directed, one can touch and pug jet the ash (with a dreamy water from dream-like starlet from muses such a metaphor of the being of philosophy). A perfect politician must become the man. The tender-blissful human-becoming of the statesman eminently fulfills four kinds of ways, to wit:

1. Devout thinker – man – politician of goodliness

2. Savant – human – politician of generosity – at me it has happened during my study. I would be a good polly (Australian English)

3. Philosopher – person – pollie (New Zealand English) of atrabiliousness. I would be an aspirant of the ontology after my exam in juridical philosophy.

4. Poet – individual (mensch in Yiddish) – politico of good-heartedness

It is the meekest (the most blissfully, the most propitiously) and the most Apollonianly to become a poet. The poet-like politician would be the best contender. My first poesy were poems, namely: the sorrowful, which brung me a comet 1998, once many a comet dust prettified thereof my pneuma with rain of mays a of dreamy heavenly mermaidling.

My lovely houndlet-doggy as PRECEPTOR teaching:

terethrough = thereby

weird-like = charm-like

youthhood = adolescence

forwhy = why

withal = with

goodliness = grace

atrabiliousness = melancholy