BLIND AND FINITE

8/13/2019 BLIND AND FINITE

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BLIND AND

FINITE

A[RE]

COLLECTIONBY

ALEX CRUSE





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S Y M M E TRY B R E AK ING

Dear Sir:

I have taken it upon myself to re-christen Sunday as:

an inherited epiphany, a Pyrrhic victory, a recirculation back from a self-induced hell/invertedmirror where the black-blue psyche of my Animus is generated and steps forth.

God exists only in man‟s dis criminations of the finite. Your judgments cannot be written; I haveall the alphabets locked in my teeth. Your eyes are like pools of hot wax collecting on the tops of2 white candles, “like crawling out of a ditch into Jackie Onassis‟ iris.” Another shrine I can‟t

believe. My mind translates this into “ 21.52782 lux. ” It‟s all pretty easy to understand.

Until your autobiography screams, anthologize every cough.

(1a) “…the white culture is an „unnatural‟ culture.”

-- Rastafari 10-point moral code

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REQUIEM I: SPAHN RANCH

JUNE 2011

We arrive before sunrise. After about twenty minutes the sun is teased up over a vista that‟sslanted like a wry mouth, an axis over which insomniac architecture — burnt out and too crazed tosettle into dusk — seems to scream out of color and out of time, hurtling the spectrum into charred

blackness and that is all; just a culmination of everything that we cannot see, all at once. Firesdestroyed Manson‟s compound in 2005, but elsewhere, dirty history adheres to stucco, operatingas a mnemonic device of the built environment: from Western film sets to squats that housedlines of speed; misanthropic guitars; languid, unwashed bodies of the Family ‟s women, contortedinto sexual gymnastics, so their rent was free…

The sun‟ s rays bleed incandescent and desert clouds hold them inside.

Emily‟s still asleep in the car and I‟m sitting on the hood, fishing for a cigarette lighter. (I rustlesome old receipts in my pocket and feel stupid: calculating leisure, they whisper back old vicesand transactions; they‟re momentary suicides of the will— every one, a memento from timeswhen I could not provide for myself alone.)

In a culture as perverse as this, society views them as the crazies, maniacs, sub-humans. Yet howHuman is the one who constantly feels the pressure of her institutionalized world, void of anyconnection to the natural one? The Tate-La Bianca murders were a depraved, near-cannibalisticexpression of Marxism and I think: what good are ideologies if we are not willing to kill for them?Were the drugs and brainwashing joint-enablers, or retroactive scapegoats? How close are our

passing homicidal urges — before they are coaxed out of our respective systems by thehomogenizing forces of marketing, peer reference groups, the belief in some social contract — totranscending into action ?

I remember when I first heard Manson‟s records. His tongue in revolt, all cowboy anarchy, logicyawning, stalled in a year not governed by any precise diction or grammatical form (“old ego is atoo much thing”)— and his kids were grabbing verbal cues from anywhere, not caring if theywere lies. I feel that inclination throughout my body, too. I feel like I am broken enough to besent absolutely over the edge by the decisive kick from my most primal brain, which tells me toact, not analyze, because analysis is useless and wrong. Maybe, most of us are no better.

It‟s like this: maybe you‟ve been to school and you‟ve read books and maybe you think it‟s all bullshit and maybe you don‟t. But, the truth is that, the demarcations of your mental topography



could be reduced to vapor if you were ever confronted by the singing charisma of a TrueMadman.

All it might take in this unstable world is an introduction to someone who appears to knowhimself better than you know yourself —who can convince you of something that you‟ve always

suspected: there‟s a way out , out of being You.



REQUIEM II: TROY DAVIS

SEPTEMBER 2011

"All the feelings of relief and peace I've been waiting for all these years, they willcome later."

--Anneliese MacPhail, mother of slain police officer Mark MacPhail

As of 11:08pm yesterday [September 21], Troy Davis is missing a world, one that he had alreadyfreed himself from. The Georgia Board of Pardons and Paroles delivered on its promise,returning Davis to the State’s soil— the very earth that, steeped with cash crops, gave rise toracist, imperialist economics; to Systemic Death: the American shadowy inevitability for most.The barons among us still live r eal Greek, while we’re chained to their mythological projects,designed to keep that insidious ratio of “one black man killed per every white police officer”intact, even if it takes 22 years for that institutionalized spite to manifest. This balance wasrestored last night. Such rabid, bureaucratic lynch mobs could have only spawned from the“majority mind,” that which defines morality and justice for the rest of us: those who suspendhabeas corpus, who prevent against self-slaughter within Death Row, only to edify their ownsterile instruments of destruction. And they hate you, and they hate me. They are indifferenttowards their mistresses.

Troy Davis, perhaps, did not die an “innocent” man— too much grit has coursed through ourcollective blood to even feign an understanding of that word. (And, we indulge a state-sanctionedconception of morality by mere invocation of the concept.) But Davis died as something more

pure and, paradoxically, human than “an innocent man.” He died an avatar of an entrenchedstruggle, obviously — but with his dying words he also communicated something that, by virtueof its perversity, was palpably real: “I am free!”

To couch the dynamics of his trial, conviction, the subsequently rescinded testimony, hissentencing (Amy Goodm an broadcasting “Strange Fruit” during her live coverage of the uneasytime between a potential verdict to stay the execution, or to fire up the syringes …)— to speak ofthese events using the detached rhetoric of political philosophy is to give in to our own psychiccompulsion to make sense of the insane through context and codification.



Davis did not die a martyr, and he was not a willing sacrifice. Death penalty repeal is perhapsone cause which needs no more martyrs. If anything, Troy Davis was a pacifist whisper againstthe raging bloodlust of the State. His last statements were neither technical nor complex; theyspoke of a simple peace that a hypocritical judicial system systematically inhibits, for its owndevices: “The struggle for justice doesn't e nd with me. This struggle is for all the Troy Daviseswho came before me and all the ones who will come after me. I'm in good spirits and I'm

prayerful and at peace.” But, as they are perpetuators of this system, and were complicit to Davis’murder — the MacPhail family cannot rightfully feel that peace.









REQUIESCAT IN PACE, DREAMS

Last dregs of the day. 9pm. Everything's swimming in red.Beach Boys chaser. okay.

I only want to exist in that flattering light--we were borninto sterile fluorescence, skin against skin against plasma,and Fate owes us these nights under the red, a vaseline-coated glow that softens our ugliness...In these leather booths there exists a built-in reminder ofmammalian death, of slaughter in the name of another'scomfort: of institutional sadists who deal in headache and

palm sweat; “ this ” is release from “ that, ” the automatic

monsters of bureaucracy. But, as they say, "Don't let thebastards grind you down… "

Forgive my low inertia, if nothing else.

"Have you ever stared at a wall and grown conscious of yourown immortality's slow disappearance?"

It happens all the time.The planned obsolescence of humanity is unavoidable and,

perhaps, the final thread connecting every last stalwartmisanthrope to the social genome. Though we might thinkourselves superior, there's a biological flaw engraved onthe double helix: our own, inevitable wasting.

Reflect on the apparatuses of death that we choose tohasten this process (pointed glance at the beer, thecigarette, the abundance of solitude encroaching upon your

psyche, the 12 layers of irony we alternately apply anddeconstruct in an effort to cope with these more-or-lessaesthetic choices--yet, we've chosen all of it.) We do notknow what mutated Cognition can arise from theseintellectually bankrupt activities--but still, unfailingly,it forms.









REQUIEM FOR AN UNKNOWN PLAYWRIGHT

…"So, like, there are these two dudes, and they're waiting for Godot..." and so I put my headphones back on, listening to an album called "ART ISOVER," sunlight varnishing the ugliness of everything, and I invoke the shallowmemory of the moment when my last vestige of interior normalcy died. Allrealities before this moment are recalled in grayscale Bas-relief; mere tableaux ofether... A camera turns on me as I walk through the university's courtyard, past a tableover which someone has draped a banner "TEENS GOING GREEN" and a shrillwoman is asking me about my thoughts on the environment (of which I have none,except that in the imminent cage match between Man and Planet, my money will

be on either warheads or cannibals.)

So I immediately and inexplicably adopt a pitch-perfect David Lynch intonation(the easiest way to find yourself behind a camera is to mimic one of the greatestdirectors of the past...whatever, "history.")

"IN THE FUTURE WE WILL BE BORN WITH POLYVINYL CHLORIDE INPLACE OF SKIN. PREVENT AGAINST SUBCUTANEOUS DAEMONS BYSEWING FENG SHUI INTO YOUR CLOTHES. 'MY COW IS NOT PRETTY,BUT IT IS PRETTY TO ME.'"

- - - - -

Every new day is an excursion through hazes of interpersonal and systemic bullshit, bad art, lame writing, addictions, auxiliaries of "the environment"...

There's no respite. I scuttle my brain with beer on weeknights, cast a sepia shadowacross nacre planes of cement, around a lake--I've walked around it 500 times atleast--before I return to a classroom that sings with formalism, procedure, andsilently envision one day completing the curve, demounting from this invertedcube of glass and steel, that rotates synchronously with Ouroboros...until then I'm

just some dude, stalemating Godot.



(2) ɔo ʌɐɥ ʇɔɐɹʇsq ɐ

“an atemporal score with a probable time-base in the region of10^19 seconds .”

--is blood on the Earth (is the journey of chemistry heading toward…Our bios:acquainted with the same jokes[?] Have we shouted in large gasps of reasoning?)Some kind of satellite hive-mind, my life. Impoverished. Malnourished and proceeding tobe "enough," to be a Sect of weight of obsessive monomania--executed unjustly--hisscalp was the basis of the telecaster’s smile (upon telecasters.) Just one crying, about that: micro-cosmos. Was swimming some problems, but now

that's finished.

Sometimes people will get back into hitch-hiking, which may start with spiraling paths, infront of the future, of the fetish. Gold —DON’T BE FOOLED . Travel may be welcomedand will pass; and welcomed back… and their sorrows in the Raw Primordial give birth to the honeyed snare of amazingelastic skin all ripped up sexish and mostly of those things that were really important.

http://kulturkamph.blogspot.com/2011/05/acid-log-o-sq-o-p-havoc-4-may-ii0011-is.html











First: discerning, governable search engines: crack-cocaine gives birth to six-leggedexhaustions. Sometimes they were secretly (1) you, (2) epigenetic warfare, and (3) myeyes. Franticly they search for their species . A LETHAL SITUATION : those devices,that have been able to ricochet off chaos?

worse than obvious. A new place; my spit is crossing over the insane water, the sortthat resonates a while. A sailor. Smart fucking joke...My love: the half-life of an idea of ______________ the sound of grave fiction; the mostbeautiful; although I know the eight arms of the poker face.

YOU ARE FUCKED , a note is just one measure of the night. Background of the TVstudio, 20, 0.0002, 0.0000000001...

FIVE EXAMPLES OF THE SECOND

DIMENSION

"Parabolic poem/ Morning, and subtly, alone"

i: The inconceivability of a mysophobe’s happiness, so filthy is love.

ii, the quiet degeneration of photographic hue, at war with sunlight, mutes the contrast of ruins unexplainable, deepspokes of shadow carved into the frame, a darkness incidental to mass; a photo, evidence of love empirical. Provemy sight. Validate.

iii, Weaving of noise, together, assimilated yet oscillating, waxing the faux wooden veneers, theanachronisms and Scottish sentiment; streaking down the glass: profanity, epiphany, conjecture, laugh;the carbon exhaust, half-life of humor, the slow activation of internal acids, throats lacquered withmicrotonal organic procedures, dirgeful song of the arabesque inside you.

iv, All my masks, mannequin heads, fake hands, wigs: obsessed with plastics, a perverse refuge from mymisanthropy: mimesis of the body itself.

v.Ugly women married, ugly women with babies.



“ ONE PRIMAL PROBLEM IS TO DEFINE TWOIDENTICAL SIDES OF SOMETHING. ”

silently lambasting the idiots always. Broadway becomes water. bones become a deafreverie: the nomadic sleep of my nightmares, a psychic yurt whose structural integrity(that is, Horror) never loses gravity in the slightest dimension, which is to say:often awake: my Hydra intelligences, drunk and various, inhabiting different colors andmute gradients where CB radios collect negative air and pawn truckers’ molar dust off tohistory’s artificial night, dense with slang (all tongues ripped out) --

Saturday. Sunlight enters eyes through gaps in fence-vinyl, fractionally, like Gysin'sDream Machine writ large. An ancient tangle of blank spaces, stressed and pulled intohieroglyphics of air. iconsstamped briefly across a tongue, degrade into a gaze,

into a spacious wound,into a place in my head as hollow as the carcass of dreams.

Needing: 1) fewer enemies in my omnibus, 2) to fight the exploding hagiography of mybedroom mirror that spawns this crooked shrapnel, my teeth.





(3) SYMMETR Y B R EA KIN G, ii.

IMMEDIATE AND MEANINGLESS AUTOBIOGRAPHIES, PT. II

Lay on a campus lawn, a fringe of arable land, with only death beyond it. Aheliotropic affect, a physical disturbance. Confront academics in front of their

monument, as you confront the sun--the two taxis which orient Americancosmology.

It's a laconic building, the type that elicits a faster response than those with morerigorous and complex vocabularies. Grid-work of bricks continue on an axis, and

spills out into public space like the colonnades of St. Peter's. The thesis of thatentrance: welcoming you, embracing you, more cosmic metaphor than architecture.

We're so ethereal and binary that we forget how Space is a positive concept.We can use space as a form of poetic control.

Think through the fourth dimension, past x, y, and z axes. Like the pyramids: "Theart and architecture of the Egyptians reflected a confidence and security affordedby their geographic isolation." Millions of desert stones canting upward, splicing

the sepia air, connecting earth and sky. He then asked us, "How did this architecture aid, abet, and maintain the status

quo?" (pause) My answer echoed in a room of 200: "...they were built by slaves?"

Pyramids, Masonic images of longevity, permanence: appear on the dollar bill asan anchor; they give our young nation faith in its currency, in its social surplus, in

its monuments to decentralized suburban life.

We can use money as a form of poetic control.



“144 x 144 ”

Data matrix- representations of websites’ URLs, based upon the most popular phrase generatedby Google’s “auto -suggest” search feature, by each letter of the alphabet, on May 15, 2011.

A Data Matrix Symbol can store up to 2,335 alphanumeric characters. Distinctive Arabiclettering can now be transcribed as repetitiously-patterned, binary, non-linguistic information sothat our ubiquitous computing devices can “read” text as we do. However, these code s are notintended to inform or enlighten, as “human” text arguably does— but to ease, organize, andexpedite the consumption process. It is interesting to note that of the 26 most searched-forterms, only two (“quotes,” “Rebecca Black”) are not corporations, or sites in which a monetaryexchange is automatically implied. Also interesting is the fact that, while such generators arereadily available online, no free document explaining the QR (“quick response”) encoding

process is available to the public. (But one, in PDF form, can be purchased from theInternational Organization for Standardization.)





NIMROD, PACING:

(“I UNDERSTAND AND I WISH TO CONTINUE”)



A MACHINERY MEANT FOR PRETTY CALM

speaking of “new haircuts,” “diets,” “weather ,”…

--weather, held within a broadening sky, which encloses our every pattern, the mythshinged upon constellations. They infiltrate our fixed dialogic Systems, and we move withthem.

and yes, the Ancients are in dialogue with our understandings: of oneanother; our inadequacies; our weapons; our own bodies.

We should never speak of the Gukurahundi, of politicide, of genocide/of Levittowns and

commodity fetishism/of graffitti on mosques and broken Temple windows/of childrens' lostlimbs/of Tantalum wars in the Congo — we are manacled forever to the most mundane tragediesof our own psyches.

Speak of fashion and I will kill you: we cannot unpack the artifice that originates insideourselves.

Speak only of science, and find sanctuary in law built biological — the last predictable pattern on an insane and senseless earth.

love is a minor calculus, shifting within the rubric of the seasons. We are dumb and childlike inour bankruptcy, our wilderness.

Our axis has run out of stamina.This is where structure ends.







NOTES

COVER:

"Theory of Garbage," Julio TeichTitle is from The Right to be Lazy (1883) by Paul Lafargue (K. Marx's son-in-law)

PAGE 1: 21.52782 lux= 2 foot-candles

"Like crawling out of a ditch into Jackie Onassis‟ iris." --Lester Bangs, on Tangerine Dream (from Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung )images from deconcrete /////////////////////////////////////////////////

PAGE 2: "ANEMIC TONES VS. ANSEMIC CODES," 2011. Greek architecture in plan/excerpted crop circlealphabet

PAGE 7: A line that appears in Rainer Werner Fassbiner's Lola (by a thinly-veiled Hermann Goering avatar):"When I hear the word 'culture', that's when I reach for my revolver.” More precisely: " Wenn ich Kultur höre ...entsichere ich meinen Browning!" ("Whenever I hear [the word] 'culture'... I remove the safety from myBrowning!")

This is actually a line sai d by the character Thiemann in Act 1, Scene 1 of the play “Schlageter” (first performed inApril of 1933, to honor Hitler's birthday), written by Nazi Poet Laureate Hanns Johst.* Of course, Mission of Burmafound success with this line, as well — moreso than did Goering, anyway.

PAGE 9: images of the twin towers/Bas Jan Ader

PAGE 12: "194X," 2010

PAGE 13: self-deteriorating/rotating self portrait, 2011

PAGE 15: full quote: "The mysterious being known as God is an atemporal score with a probable time base in theregion of 10 to the power of 19 seconds." From John Latham‟s piece, "God is Great."

image: Milo Manara

PAGE 17: image: Time-Law symbol (determining sun/moon position) at Haugsbyn, from the Halstatt Periodimage: time variation of the smoothed pulse amplitude of a star, 1968.

PAGE 18: "B-0B9 vs. Mertz Glacier," 2010 (microphotography print under a cell of a drawing of Antartica's MertzGlacier/B-0B9 iceberg collision)

PAGE 23: "A machinery meant for pretty calm" was taken from Russ Rymer's "BACK TO THE FUTURE: Disneyreinvents the company town," a critique of Celebration, Florida.

PAGE 24: "Grid 5," some code iterations/imagery i made using Visual Basic

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http://www.deconcrete.org/



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BLIND AND FINITE