Gestures Images
in front of her is a scrim
a red scrim comes down
down
on a road on the
horizon
here our cast of characters
You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here,
I believe that much unseen is also here.
Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial,
The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the illiterate person, are not denied;
The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,
The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,
The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town,
They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,
None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me.
You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here,
I believe that much unseen is also here.
From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently,but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.
I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.
All seems beautiful to me,
And then there is rumble, and rocks fall, fall and fall
And failing from the sky is the geo-engineer
Gender generator
Out of the rubble comes our narrator
And she now, she stands with the geo-engineer
Not now but Geo says we had our little magic and then yes that turned into reason and science but magic science is now big science big magic and the planet needs some theatre director. It is an a programmable art work. But well get there.
Now a tsunami comes and big big catastrophe
Wind and sails and havoc in the way to the new world Levi Strauss
Sorry about that we are just doing a little tweaking to our climate adjustment program
Now the chorus is all in white face, and the MC being projected on with other body part.
\
my writing becomes more writing and more writing and more and more and more, things proliferate and proliferate
and i thought of nijinsky, the faun who had fallen away from the spell dihagolev, and those that fell away from the spell of analysis who went lateral, schizo,
whitman contained multitudes, and nietzche and nijinsky?
i am becoming multiple. I am becoming an hallucination to myself. I am a scanner darkly.
once power became abstract, becomes symbol and ritual and once reason becomes software the whole of us can go mad and let the artificial intelligence run the place.
Why, for example, do we continue to speak of the sun’s “rising” and “setting”, when strictly speaking the sun does not move at all? As Wittgenstein puts it, “a whole mythology is deposited in our language” (ibid.).
Wittgenstein sees this attempt to explain what the primitives are doing as mistaken from the very beginning. Their actions are not attempts to manipulate causal processes, and so neither are they based on mistaken beliefs. Rather, we should see their actions as a kind of language, but a language of gestures rather than of words. Ritual is not about doing something; it is about saying something.
I think Wittgenstein would also want to add that this gesture-language is one that is particularly adapted to its subject matter. There are some things which are too grand, too sublime, or just simply too much to be adequately expressed in words, “the crush of thoughts that do not get out because they all try to push forward and are wedged in the door”
From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently,but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.
I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.
All seems beautiful to me,
In the port of Amsterdam there's a sailor who sings
Of the dreams that he brings from the wide open sea
In the port of Amsterdam there's a sailor who sleeps
While the river bank weeps to the old willow tree
In the port of Amsterdam there's a sailor who dies
Full of beer, full of cries in a drunken town fight
In the port of Amsterdam there's a sailor who's born
On a hot muggy morn by the dawn's early light
In the port of Amsterdam where the sailors all meet
There's a sailor who eats only fish heads and tails
And he'll show you his teeth that have rotted too soon
That can haul up the sails that can swallow the moon
And he yells to the cook with his arms open wide
"Hey, bring me more fish, throw it down by my side"
And he wants so to belch but he's too full to try
So he stands up and laughs and he zips up his fly
In the port of Amsterdam you can see sailors dance
Paunches bursting their pants grinding women to porch
They've forgotten the tune that their whiskey voice croaked
Splitting the night with the roar of their jokes
And they turn and they dance and they laugh and they lust
Till the rancid sound of the accordion bursts
And then out of the night with their pride in their pants
And the sluts that they tow underneath the street lamps
In the port of Amsterdam there's a sailor who drinks
And he drinks and he drinks and he drinks once again
He'll drink to the health of the whores of Amsterdam
Who've given their bodies to a thousand other men
Yeah, they've bargained their virtue, their goodness all gone
For a few dirty coins, well, he just can't go on
And he pisses like I cry on the unfaithful love
In the port of Amsterdam
In the port of Amsterdam
—Now, for months and months,
I have found
ANOTHER MAN in me—;
HE is NOT me—; I
am afraid him …”
