Ugliness Plugliness and Smugliness

My Infernal Whinge-r Is A Binger - Hearts Livid Spectatorials of Darkness

“Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.”

Emile Cioran

Kill Bots

I didnt mock or belittle CJ for how he writes — in our kill bot session. After which I too started blocking out politics.

Once, in midst of the argument, almost began to put him down for the genre he writes in, but then I stopped, stepped back and thought about it, and decided no.

I disagree with him, in that I think that voting is important, that its important to participate. But I also believe he has a knife in his goody box. Not everyone does.

He said once he preferred compassion. But I think prefers the carrier who is courier who is also a warrior, employs and enjoys the digs as a charter, as a writer who charts what he or other writers are up to and up against, good against bad.

I like to dig too. As a charter. But I dont critique others so much (about writing) as blubber on and on about what I find in suds and mud with darling buds of Yes I May, finding narrative extensions, criss crossing raids for poem structures that go after shape and ground, a conversational bench wrench (and idiosyncratic stench) for uncovering if can roots of timelessness, still in sequence with Blake even.

Politics sets me off, because I am afraid of the Christian Nationalists. And all those who cozy with Putin.

Elevations

Chart room with an axe.

That was a theme I got into for awhile. Hacking through language as a focal that absorbs deviation and difference and stumbles into folds —

(“Deleuze views Leibniz's concept of the monad as folds of space, movement and time. He also interprets the world as a body of infinite folds that weave through compressed time and space.” Wiki.)

Folds use words that are combinatory. Allows for chop chop — sequencing in alternating “shots,” the unexpected, angling for danglers…

The nonsense rhymes really surprised me, even more than ranging out of “the box” with Genet’s darlings and Bataille’s Dirty which didnt surprise me as much as solidify the cowed, as in considered a crime, or a bad Alice — Sensitivities, for a particular kind of delusional prosaic, but the grace is defiance.

I have a Dirty, a Nasty, and a Haute-le-Couer. Dirty is a Bataille steal, Nasty comes out of hatred every child knows (with hysterical laughter even), and Haute is diverse across stridencies that are tyrannical puritanical, haut-le-cour is a euphemism in french for heave retching revulsion — I add an e, and call it her highness of the heart, haut/e means high, top, up peak, that badgers with the eternal?

What is measurable? but countless and repetitious, mythic and the divine.

Moving Target

Madness and the elevation of death — elevation to a moving target. Who hampers in negative space. Like running at a wall to breach its faith, or racing with a train in the rain, finding figurations where death is a metaphor for life as lived, from one death to another.

Over which sacred intensities tend to beautify. With Jesus or St. Mary, also as bird and rising from ashes ashes, boatloads of resurrectional contrivances.

Oblivion Mining is a thematic entanglement with elevations of death where steam open sacred relics primitive and cartoon. Where spirit as well can careen to edges of dementia.

A kind of borderless state, where life itself is considered The Enemy. My freedom its martyr, life having given way to a capitulation, a capitulation to reality, which feels like a fall from grace, into “night” of mortal blight.

Throwing Medusas

Both tormented and shocked at how certain graces are found and purveyed via searches into nihilism. Which is what Bataille found.

But letting go of the importance of myself (however multiplies in the mirror of time into many), and reality, letting go of the importance of reality — is a relief from wishing — dead.

And a place for the prisoner to hide from horror and yet engage with it in another way, which is a hungry torrid sense of sacrifice to reality — To want and forsake at the same time! is an equivocation encumbered by sorrow and the absurd — and can reek of a deeply ensanguinated mortal regret.

At end just before CJ blocked me, CJ’s bot was screaming at me, with every evil he sees in the world. Why he wasnt choosing sides. I was screaming back. But did try and find in midst of it, a holding off from attacking his writing otherwise, which was a relief.

I fear more rights being taken due to the extent of church creeping into to everything, and we end up back at the Scopes trial where women lose control over bodies to a belief that its gods decision.

Religious dogma taking to extensions as real is beautiful. Language beautifies it, language reveals in religious dementia a spirit that turns siren, that calls to its harbor, and lets go of reality — of women having to be on edge of death before allow modern medicine to just take care of.

This is an affliction, when dogma doesnt take account of reality, and rules over others based on puritanical affinities, taken as real.

He was out to kill my bot for having the stinking kerplinking audacity to very strongly disagree. And I knew it. And the plighter fighter — in me is doing it anyway.

I’m getting pulled in and throwing Medusas.

Over on several right-sided blogs, Sendy Wendy launched backhands up the wazoozy, out there on burst (from fear) my whinger binger, up against their crotchets and snivelings about evils.

Death to the other side. Universal horrors, highly politicized hatreds, blaming the other side for every horror one sees and creating a purity to fight against it, onward christian soldiers against women who abort, they be bitten by darkness of Satan.

I disagreed with their reality about democrats, and coincidentally called them all liars.

Yes I have been called Satan on Substack for disparaging the right.

Liberal Democracy

Liberals and their democracies are despised as makers of all the horrors in the world. Even by those who take full advantage of the freedoms they offer.

And despite January 6, USA is a country that thousands upon thousands these days want to move to - from all over the world because we do try watch after our police forces. And its not run by the army. In NY, NYPD belongs to us, we pay for it.

Western economy. Is different than China whose social-standing -digital-cards — control your economy. Countries where its government run or gang based.

Here its partnership, business and gov create partnerships, thats the idea anyway.

Economy and freedom can coexist ? Depends how much freedom you mean. And for who? Wars, martyrs and slavery, have long memories.

USA exists as a coexistence in a way that is The World. Despite people going to jail for Jan 6, or for protesting Cop City.

Communities are deeply rooted here, esp traditional black and white, as well as whats called hispanic which like european is varied, and american indian nations. Big cities and rural. Nothing nowhere is perfect. Democracy is an endless argument…

For money and for freedom? Money is freedom… some. Yes housing, movement… But look at Russia. Money is also corrupt, politicians, are the grease in the wheel. And its they whose ideologies impose virtues on my freedom.

Gaza

I began to plunder killbot banging. the bring it on, digital verbal violence as a tense, taking a trip into the subvicious, into a realm of infernal beauty (flow de mal), a slipping off into the furnace of disdain.

There’s a pro Putin site that I think is Russian staged. Which Substack is making quite a bit of money off of. Indeed. I have reported them. And any number of times now have set loose infernal magpie there upon — over Putin being falsely cast as the next best thing — as compared to the horror of democrats.

Is it that much different on the left? We think it is — but we all engage in a jest with horror we vision as both a serious and a mock discoursive, and it courses through like a taste with oblivion.

Gaza is a horror and violently heart breaking. And so is Russia’s attempt to basically obliterate Ukraine. And we are stuck watching, horrified at something we cant stop. And may even support… I support Ukraine.

Oblivion Mining

Oblivion Mining acts as an entry into the infernal, and the ecstatic. Ecstatic led to the infernal? No. They are not connected necessarily in that way.

Ecstatic is part of the spirit searching for itself. Ecstatic longings edge the divine as union with seeing, or with being, or with oblivion — epiphanies are a result of being with spirit, in religious language.

Oblivion as a place of neg space, as in art, an emptiness than defines shape, taken out to a mythology of nonbeing. Nirvana is a letting go of life. But to do so while your alive, comes with a twinge of death.

Elevated and subversive, how one can become infected with it.

Can spin you off into multiple breaches with reality, as voices let loose, come from past, come from beyond, meaning inside and outside of view, and within that a creation of diverse relations, that reache beyond real. Real being stuck in presence and “fact?”

Back Handers

Backhand, the febrile backhand, I wondered if it emerged from thresholds in nihilism? Screaming, after all, is a childish act of heroism.

Precious dips into infernal realms of resistance as a battle with uncertainty, tingling with death, screeching for mercy —

Surprised me how akin to raging away in political kill bot land.

The call of resistance, the subversive absolution of its sacrifice, not kidding. Kill bots are a sacrifice in some ways to the necessities of its own meaning. Perhaps not as much to die for, as to kill for.

Camus touches on it. When he discusses what becomes a thing will purportedly die for and its relationship to the absurd. Pessoa?

Pessoa turns them into a sweet impossible yearning that plays itself out in a combination of spirited elves for selves, as if one soul is a well of all souls engaged in resurrection and forgetting…

Madness Lost and Found

I never really got over eccentrics that surfaced as deranged, that showed up with the madness. Still have to strive to keep The Assassins from doing me in. But only about politics?

Turned into a mutiny, succeeding explosions of violently verbal jest, The Assassins — came to force, a rimbaudian tusk, in the oblivion mining, that cratered to mutiny. Again and again. That blew my mind.

I had to shut down —-

Left me buried in a rollicking terror. Something to calm the mutiny, drawing bodies and flowers, prints and screens…

Tenderness for the absurd wasnt going away, including one of the replicants, as a martyr for mercy? Still lives on…

Mutiny of violent separations, went beyond ideology to riots of play.

The Assassins.

Instigators arising from the infernal, had me wedged in with so many colors of the absurd, as if — more real than real, and yet touched, by a dizzying application of warpaint... Color of blood, and vampire yearnings to live outside of time, and yet still stuck here sucking endlessly and thirstily on the colors of love.