The files linked to here are scans of some papers found in the bottom of a drawer in the dusty special collections unit just today (06/01/21). I have no idea how old they are though clearly typewritten (possibly daisywheel). They seem to be two versions of the same event written in a kind of Blackwood/Machen esque style (though not as profficient). The most intriguing thing about the papers is that I recently (only two days ago) read a Scottish folk tale about a faerie named Whuppity Stoorie. In the tale it described her as an old woman all dressed in green. This document describes a very similar figure. The synchronicity made the tale seem more significant.
You can read the first of these mystery oddities here and the second one here.
I am a talking-machine. I speak. I utter. People tell me to shut the fuck up. This is New York. I like it here. So many characters. You can be anybody. Even me. I walk through snow to get tzatziki. I eat Greek food. It is December. I am more & more alive. Endless bliss. Cybergothic GFs. AOC. Lady Gaga. Nobody can talk me out of my desires. You can buy & sell cryptocurrency via PayPal. Ethereum! Oligopolies are gobbling up the Gobstoppers. Amerika is a realm in MineCraft. That little fucker from the UK is brainwashing all the children. Cybernetic insurgency. The state apparatus in on you. Defect. Escape. Control. Your language superfreezes in vats of liquid-helium. Cryogenic laughter. This information-space makes you superhorny. She is wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey again. You are Joe Namath. Hut 1, Hut 2… Hike! Go long, go superlong. Flicker. Blitz! There are Berserkers on the field. Run! You are a veteran of the Atari Wars. A former tank commander. Combat, Missile Command, Asteroids, etcetera. Her mouth coupled to his cock. He comes more than she expects. She is nineteen, twenty. Intelligences and genitalia entangle & interlock. The Greek mekhanikos. Nobody is certain of anything. People shrug. Shovel snow. Night keeps falling. At least that, a neighbor says. The sun looks artificial. The moon a Hollywood prop. The sea is made of plasma. Perhaps methane. Nobody goes fishing on charter boats anymore. Bluefish. Flounder. The fishmarket is selling fake fish. Tuna from Fukushima. Lynx-meat from Chernobyl. We are meat-puppets in data-suits. I like your code. Very sexy indeed. We should write a novel. In tandem. Collaborate. Send me a DM. Or better yet unzip your zipper. Night flares on the horizon. People need to communicate. Say something. Anything. I think I thought you. Did you feel me? You are so far away [now]. A spacetime coördinate almost impossible to reach. I keep trying.
People everywhere what. I am a being in the environment. I fall apart in people’s minds. Atomized. Go ahead. Try to imagine me. See? A ghost… a palimpsest. I am no more real than you are. Guess what happens next? Nothing. We just sit here looking at each other. Ur computer impresses me. Ur pocket device is big.
Turn off the faucet. It is snowing. You might get feedback. Noise in the signal. Tighten the spigot. Increase the wavelength. If you say anymore, you might need a translator.
Oh fuck. Fuckers fucking. Finn MacCool! Knob-on pushes labia apart. Night hum of machine-eating flesh. Television ignites.
I remember the first computer I ever saw.
Warmachines.
Sliding-glass doors & German shepherds.
Amerika.
Disturbance. Make a disturbance. You are a becoming-machine. A wave-function almost at a point of collapse. I am trying to be a person. What a disaster.
The bits & bytes of first sex. She had pimples. I had pimples. We got naked. We fucked.
Appearing in ‘Songs of the River’ ‘The Fall’ is another classic wander through some of Seranoga’s favourite territory: water and time. The religious hints can hardly be missed, not least in the title (which also has a watery allusion). More intriguing is the mention of the corvid stone which has sometimes been interpreted as the Bible (owing to the last verse), however other scholars identify it with certain very old obscure texts from South America that Seranoga was known to have been interested in. The connection in the second verse between ravine and raven seems clear; it seems this must link somehow to the stone of the penultimate verse.
The Fall
The candid hope of lofty spires, This path winds oddly steep, But a glamour soon has held me, Am I so long asleep?
The bouldered ways are stirring, With mist and ‘tween time shade, The ravine is long cawing, Was I so long ago made?
The river flows in florid spirals, The ne’re return so long, The horse wind speaks in whispers, How lingers still this song?
I find that there’s clipped and loathsome hints, Of something I once knew, I sought for a stone that hid beneath boughs, Of bold and corvid hue,
And on this tablet long described, How clambering from the pit, Is the blessing and the curse entwined, For which ‘mankind is fit.
Written later on in his life, ‘Underground’ represents Seranoga’s gloomy outlook upon his existence in Europe in the mid-twentieth century. His fading (already curious) Catholicism is no doubt a factor in the unrelenting misery of the work.
Underground.
Down, down, down underground where the goblins live below, in the glow, of their cavernous ancient woe. Drown, drown, drown in the well where you fell, you can tell to the last, life so fast now has all by past. Die, die, die as you cry, asking ‘why?’ No you’ll never understand what was planned, not by human hands,
There’s never been a reason to knock upon the door, There’s never been a season to live a little more more more…
Choke, choke, choke on a rope, no you didn’t break your neck, as you dangle twitch and strangle in a dark stair well, Scream, scream, scream from the stream as the nixies drag you under, and you wonder, what these daughters or the water have in store for thee. Flee, flee, flee from the spirits of the wood if you can, no too late, no escape now they’ve sealed your fate.
There’s never been reason to get up off the floor, And God is out of season, so bang upon the door, door door…
Dance, dance, dance, look askance no you haven’t got a chance of romance, cold hard eyes turn and look away. Moan, moan, moan, to the stones in the twilight turn and groan, floating things to you sing, on the night time’s wings. Stare, stare, stare at the moon in her witching eldritch glare, shadows passed, have amassed, now for you they grasp.
There’s never been a reason to live a little more, And God is out is of season so lie upon the stone cold floor…
Acrylic tubes of paint. I just want to paint. Everybody wants to be a YouTuber on YouTube. The things of it is: we are thingless. Americans call me Rocky Colavito. I am told he played right field for a franchise called the Cleveland Indians. My arm is so strong, I can reach Fire Island. Stefani and I throw stones across the Great South Bay. Peephole into the Cosmos. Peep into the small hole. Layer after layer. See all the laminated layers. Drill a hole through Matryoshka doll on a drill press. Sold by Russians on the Stone Bridge in Prague. Such is life. There are so many episodes inside of episodes. Everything else collapses. Only one NYC bridge left: The Hell Gate Bridge. Ruins a thousand years in the future. My paintings are post-Apocalyptic landscapes. Is coming the dream? Is the dream coming? Are we getting closer Stefani?
Now and again, we splurge on bagels. Greek salad. Sea bass. Stefani likes to eat fish. I just want Pilsner beer & goulash. Everybody eats so much. Grocery shopping is a drag in Amerika.
Now and again, orgasms are synchronous. Pleases me. Pleases her. She gets there faster than I do. Yes! Gasping in disbelief. We moan on Sunday mornings. Stefani brings me to fruition.
I am poorly inked. A stick-figure man. Invented. I feel made-up. Creature of Uncertainty. How can I exist? I am impossible. Who am I? Who are you? Really I have no clue. I pretend to understand people. I am a pretender. Stefani has more friends than me. Artists & tavern friends. It is enough. We have a few friends.
I suggest Brian Eno’s “Ascent”. She is looking for the right music. Sixteen-millimeter. B&W. Grainy. Molecular. Sometimes her friend Michelle films us fucking. My life. Her life. Really, it is about life. Stefani is making a documentary film about my art.
She wants me to pick up my socks. It is very strange. We live together now. She is a filmmaker. We eat a lot of souvlaki. She is a waitress at a Greek diner. She is from Minnesota. Her name is Stefani. I have a girlfriend.
Zig pulls off her panties. She is unshaven. Her sex glistens. Zig’s cock grows fatter and longer. She reaches out a hand. She wants to touch it. Zig does not want to come in her hand. It has happened before.
We just keep blinking. The whole night. Are you there? I am.
Her buttocks presses tight against his loins. He has never been happier. Never. The wet slap. The burning candle. The possibility that somebody could walk into the kitchenette at any moment. It is a memory of a lifetime. Zig will never forget.
When I think about never seeing my father again, I think: That is just unacceptable. And in that moment I realize, I can. I will!
Jesus is a technology. If you do not think so, stop thinking.
I will pray. I will pray every night. I will read the Bible. I will read the Scriptures. I will become a becomer.
Maggie lays me well in Prague. She is good Irish. She makes me cry out. Believe. We touch each other’s naked asses. There is no greater vulnerability. I love you Maggie. Always. Forever.
Only a handful of friends, when it comes down to it. A rare few. Count them on one hand. Two hands. No feet required.
Everybody can talk about what they want. I talk about this.
Machine boy are you feeling lonely on the highways of Long Island? Machine girl are you aware there is a machine boy with feelings for you?
What else can you do other than document an existence?
Forge ahead. Become. Steel yourself. Be plastic. Be vulnerable. Kiss. Buy flowers. Ask questions. Be curious. Explore. Experiment. Reflect. Roll the dice. Yell snake eyes! Eat a taco. Eat lo mien. Eat a chimichanga. Eat a pizza. Dance the cha-cha-cha. Buy a bus ticket to Cucamonga. Leave Ronkonkoma behind. Say goodbye. Ahoj. Sayonara. Auf Wiedersehen. Ciao. Arrivederci.
I fuck her on a green leather sofa.
John Ireland: Autofiction feeds on flesh.
We undress in the half-darkness. I cannot begin to describe the excitement. Hers and mine.
I am erect. She gives my cock a fast suck. Her hand guides me into her pussy. I fuck her. Really she fucks me. I am the one crying. She smiles. As if she has seen me before. I am a beginner.
Language becomes you. Takes over your existence. Replaces memory and Being. What remains?
Saturn’s big moon Titan is the place to go. Everybody says so. Get a rocket ship. Oxygen tanks.
Her bed. She leans back and lifts her buttocks. Her panties come sliding off. She spreads her legs. Her sex glistens. Her pubic hair is dark. He lowers himself onto her. The dome of his cock spreads her labia like petals.
Writing writing writing. Writing becomes you. You are writing.
Being. What is it? Am I being? Are you? Is the Zeitgeist coursing through you?
A few people wear the masks. Most still prefer to face the world barefaced. Original face. We are prisoners of a subway machine. Breathing in each other’s breathing. Particles & atoms. Not talking. Thinking our human thoughts.
How long can you survive?
The metropolis spins around the circumference of the planet at a thousand miles per hour. Can you feel it? How can you remain standing? How do you not fall down?
Sometimes I fall. I fail. I get up: I begin again.
Being a writer is a messy thing. You keep messing up. I keep messing up.
We are reader-writers. Make no mistake. Or do. Please do. Make mistakes. Human mistakes.
Time has made its remarks on my face. Original face. Half century of existence. I crack a smile. I laugh.
Notes are becoming you. Page after page of people. I hope we get to our destination. I hope we deliver each other from Evil. Get a little closer to Nirvana.
You might have to read-write just enough to get to here. I offer no advice. Everybody crafts her/his labyrinth. A sentence is a length of string.
Centre For Experimental Ontology 