Sister Star

a safari of embarrassed flowers

I have done lots of embarrassing things. So much so that i don’t even get embarrassed now. Humiliation is different to embarrassment. Humiliation is malevolence made manifest; a violent external force trying to coerce. Disenchanting to witness, humiliation is especially shocking to those who have been living without witness.

Yet i still maintain i will evade all feelings of helplessness with the assertion of the word “mine”. This is mine. Embarrassment: mine. Comprende? I surmise here that one has to be human to partake in the humiliating, so I welcome in the following an erasure of my humanity and a demonstration on how to enunciate this ‘mine’ sufficiently.

No malevolence today. Cold, mechanical malevolence. I’ll let you in when i feel like it.

Embarrassment for me feels like something personal and between two, not taking place on the stage of the humiliator, instead elsewhere. An altogether different scene. Embarrassment in a sense returns one to their small body, a certain immutable point, granular, and all that i can do at that point is laugh. Laughter being my excess. Sincerely. I have taken something back. Even if it is just a prop from an old and tired theatrics. It is to be filled with a sort of endearment at not really knowing what I, or you, are. There is a sense of comradery in that improv somewhere I’m sure. So i like to sometimes bring to mind embarrassing things i have done and unravel them. Little sweets of self-pleasure where i have transgressed the best of my ‘self-concepts’. Because we all know they’re a bit ridiculous, we know we are more than ridiculous. And although this simple pleasure has never developed into a perversion worthy of the name, i do wonder if it could be better described as masochistic, or at the very least I think the humiliation is Sadeian. So i differentiate myself from his hardcore law like a roused shadow. “Human is the garb i wear for the sake of undressing” said the shadow to the Marquis.

I just want to feel the little-ness of embarrassment. Not unlike those smelly Victorian’s with their dainty floriography. A series of flowers punctuating a sexual, giggling, undercurrent. Flowers are covert and so I summon my sister to turn the black Iris in secret.

Flower turning today maybe is sufficiently demonstrated in the online ‘lulz’ phenomena. Occasionally venturing beyond good and evil when formed through its chaos is a sense of anonymous solidarity. Here is the commune beneath. Trolling, hacking, roasting and so on as means to mutate. It all reveals the permeability of the image and our status quo warrior relationship to it as brazen scopopheliacs. I have many times lost myself in the flat of a photo, and my loose (mis)understanding of the concept ‘identity politics’ is received only as a wrist slap, lol. More fool the cosmic slapper, he could at any moment be exploited by the dynamism of perversion.

Images and images, the lulz invites their playful (or horrific) deconstruction and the very fabrics of recognition that envelope me in some particular image-instant.
Lulz-ing along, worst of all are those moments of disconcerting submission. Some like best to drift, and those are the most strange with their eerie irony.

Anyone who has been caught in a nexus of sibling combat knows they have never laughed as much. What is the purpose of siblingship if not this spitting vitriolic contravene whose laughter presupposes a collapsing tower? A sometimes exalting laughter that invites its company in the retort: ‘i know i am, but if i am your sister then what does that make you?’. Shadow integrated. Brother, i apologize.

Pornstar’s pulling funny faces! Lightning could strike and id steal it back in a slightly self-conscious, slightly embarrassed giggle. And contrary to those sticklers of continuity this does not occlude access to more divergent moments of the erotic. How can lighting shame itself? I can have the whole world through this transmutation of humiliation into embarrassment. Of human into unknown. The human here feels as generic as data, the unknown as specific as, well, this. Giggling and giggling; the propensity to laugh. Though it should be noted that at the moment of cumming one must be serious. And in fact I’d prefer solitude.

Laughter subsided, there was one video of recent which re-surfaced in memory after i came across an odd photo online. I was searching for man tears as a femme-incel. From an article on ‘toxic masculinity’, photos of men crying. Anyway, i will not say much about it but let the photo and that small smidge of context transmit for you the uncanny feeling i felt on encounter:

It was that image that induced a resurfacing of a video of myself crying.
It is not something i would like to see again because in it i was not even human. Wish granted. Could the humiliator as described here be the camera? Humiliation an inevitable effect of the technology? I dont think so. I think they sometimes unite in a spectacle, but i know from practice that the camera can be re-appropriated. And my arbitrary rule today is that humiliation can only happen to the human. I am not human.

So to continue the description of de-humanization...I remember, it was sent to a past boyfriend. He liked glasses, and so i was wearing a pair, but i was crying. This sort of crying has memory loss. I did not feel sad or despairing. I had no object to weep over, no story nor an agenda, and i didn’t make a sound, just tears. It was not forced. It just happened. The only other experience i can relate it to is when i was in poor work conditions and unbeknownst to myself becoming increasingly ill; wilting. Visiting the bathroom regularly whilst there to cry I’d watch myself in the mirror with this complete incomprehension; a dissociated crying. ‘Watching myself’ is an overstatement as statues cannot watch, can they? Although I’ve always suspected they had the potential for revenge. Things cannot be kept that static for that long without accumulating some …resentment?

Not long after that i became a vampire and could not even see myself in the mirror. Or bring myself to look. It was then i had no idea what i was and i did not want that final assault of finding out. Un-dead maybe i would have seen that more than, or not seen it at all. It must be a fine line between enjoying the uncanny, as previously described, and of not enjoying it. Like in this video, alienated. Crying on the glasses i begin to lick them in what must be the most revolting of thing-like spectacles; a degenerate alien is about to spark mutations in the status quo warrior’s sci fi. And with it its laughter too shifts from giggling to cackling.

This flower is a psychotic episode. Apparently.

If my brother was there maybe he could have transformed my tears into laughter? Antidote for the poor status quo warrior? Anti-flower?

But sometimes you just have to endure being non-human. And as said, to cum one cannot be laughing, so posit your voyeurs wisely.

It was only last month i was able to materially manifest that butterfly man in the bedroom, who in fact is a multitude of anonymous others.
In other words, I have had sex with you all.
And I enjoyed it very much.
Fornicating with gods, with dogs, with corpses. Negating malevolence; welcome to the pornographic’s of a cheap thrills sort of laughter. A touch of toxic masculinity mixed with a little David Attenborough in the cauldron tonight- the bloodhound gangs bad touch-. We unanimously approve so please resume dancing. We especially like you all dressed as taunting monkeys. We also like your tears. 

We are a coven of de-sexing and re-sexing soil
evaporating into scum
keeping flowers in full bloom as we ask you ‘Are you aware that monkeys can laugh?’

I conjure Sade and he concludes:
“this is not Sade. You haven’t even read Sade. You rarely stay up past midnight. Your drug of choice is valium. And your favourite ice-cream flavour is vanilla”

well sometimes it is pistachio. but okay.

Dragon water

Tenerife advertisement for water park

Watercolour dragon/ Peurto del la cruz

Mimicking the watery dragon/ Newcastle

Shell fits Mouth

Whilst making collages i usually put on a cd. Recently it has
been Madonna’s ray of light album. One song i particularly like is ‘sky fits
heaven’ because of the use of the word ‘fits’ throughout; an embracing sort of
fitting. A nest. This ‘fits’ has become a tying point between recent
associations. Or what i call a clenching moment, a knot, or maybe even a
photograph?
From a conversation on hags i was lead to hands and their
expressive and tactile dimension. Especially the significance of hands when
traversing the psycho-geography, of entering and exiting, from one distinction
to the next. The hand in Susperia comes to mind as it turns the blue Iris, a
secret passageway. Mundra’s i know nothing about and dare not come to know as
right now i would like the joy of -‘making sense of’- myself.

Last night a friend had organized a ‘free association group
meeting’ in which I attended, my body somewhat alerted through the hag's fingers. This attention to body and
room and not just language as instructional information took the trail of associations in more
divergent directions, or more incarnate. Instead of absent mindedly using
gesture in order to follow language and affirm the already-said, the gestures
began to be used in order to work out, it seems, the corporeal tangibility of
the said language, figuring it out as we collectively followed ourselves, each other,
in following ‘it’. ‘It’...redirecting it with our expressive bodies, testing our
limits to possibly traverse them. At moments it was almost like our fingers
were a series of keys that if moved a certain way we could move to the next
‘space’ whilst simultaneously creating it. It felt like less of us was lost in translation,
that is a larger portion of our bodies allowed presence and subsequently an
attention to the atmospheric (which for me is akin to the poetic as experienced
via successful dérive’s and so on).Though we did not leave the room at one point it was full of water!

Prior to the meeting i had impulsively detoured into a
photobooth to take a photo of my t-shirt as my hands interacted with its
symbols. Though i now wonder if the photos would be better described as symbols
or gestures. both, more than. Whatever it is, it feels like a language in
gestation. Mirroring seems to be a very current feature. The spectacle of
replication in this mimesis is exceeded by a very active curiosity. No sense of
alienation in the image, maybe just a wish that is perennially granted.
to be continued…

from grid...

                        

to becoming starfish... 

relevant fragment found from 2015

The Militarization of the Moon: Cosmic cat

‘the militarization of the moon’ are notes taken from one sleepless night of spawning conspiracy via the Eniac. The computer is my technology at hand as an uninspired insomniac trawling the web, bound to fall into whatever paranoiac net has been left for me. I am talking probabilities. Or not quite, but almost. From its data/programming lingo, boxes within boxes, I was not at all that interested in learning the complexities of the mechanics but more following my own delirium and looking for cats, always looking for cats.
Thinking through using sexuate distinction- trope- as separation method and the cat as always a familiar or a psychonaut or stars! reflections on 21st century love. teach me how to move with you o furry purry starry thing.
And here are what the felines taught me that night:

The moon is a perfect balcony

And cats like to sit on windowsills.

Also they like to curl up inside boxes.

Everyone knows this.

(Austin Osman Spare)
Concluded in a meme

The Militarization of the Moon: Cat gun

Above us: the chains of his lair. Below us: her withering
kelp, slippy.
‘i stroke my lover to load her up, puurrr purrr’
‘and i shoot the load when i am stroked, meow.’
(We just kissed on the condition that the cosmic puppeteer
was watching through a heavy silver ringlet.)

Perverts playing video games eroticize thread.
And make of it a garter ribboned dog bite
Which at the very least frays the assembly line
OUCH!
Lots of MEOW MEOW’s and BANG BANG’s now.

This didn’t last long.
Soon returning the military pair into two restless children
on a Christmas eve in early march,
Sneaking sneaking down the stairs to catch a glimpse of santa
claus
How does that big governing body operate?
Get back up stairs to bed you pesky children, it is 3AM!

‘Replicators’; your way of saying you have no idea where your
breakfast came from this morning.  
‘Moon?’; my way of saying i have no idea where this morning
came from. -End-

The Rabbit, Entire

The waiting room

 re-found, today, from partial channelings recorded in 2015. at the time addressed to a friend. possibly of interest to current developing methods into receptivity to such internal locutions?:

                                         

holding hands

A flower for Unica Zurn
and the 'gruesome inner unions' with 'unborn suckling' infants.

Paranoiac net traps

'the world is forcing me to hold your hand'
This game goes like:
What sigils- what accidental traps- have I netted for myself in wait, when I was non-chelantly wondering the city? When I thought i was just me.

I as paranoiac am wondering… the topographic net I make to catch myself is becoming increasingly sticky-explicit. I am with my younger brother in the city, he seems to be following me. Then in me I have to run. I begin running from him. He is perplexed and irritated. I run from him with the same contracting necessity of a gag reflex. I hate that we are not alone. The third is here. Run.

Because when my brother speaks It is now the third speaking also, that is spilling into his words. All language is permeated by the third. And I hate the third for doing this.
Last time I was faced with the third I named him butterfly man and performed a series of counter-gestures in attempts to perforate him. In such attempts my tongue gets heavy as I speak. My attention recoils from the meaning into the phonetics and the vibration returns to my mouth. Attention to the heaviness of my tongue is a moments respite and a meditation on myself as creator; it is just me, or just is just. But I come back out again like vomit and it tastes of the impulse to press against the limits of territorial law. Ending in the exhausting back and forth of a petty criminal which is the entropy of a spinning toy. Eventually it stops and I am just me. It relies on me to set it spinning, again.

But round two spinning, instigated by a Marxist talk I attend; here I am as is he. He is speaking through my friends now. I am simultaneously receiving the two sides of language. Very distracting. The exact same words but in one I hear him and in the other my friend. So I am responding not just to my friend but also to this third. And I want to violently evade this third. Because I feel he robs me of the essential joy of being just tongue. Tongue tongue fleur. Or being just with another. Maybe in the same way the collective can rob the individual of their specificity when it makes of them a means to an ends for sake of its cause, which I perceive as this third; butterfly man owns the means of production and he plays with propaganda? That was my version of events, that was yesterday.  

After some violence on my part I eventually settle despite this heavy presence. I’ve been here before. It is potentially dangerous. I’ve sent mermaids into his ENIAC. Alien kelp is something other. It is a push and pull. And I am about to go out again. He is just a moment and this morning I laugh in the face of the immanently dangerous. The clouds could fold, I could fall at any moment yet I wouldn’t even. And if the world forces me to hold your hand, I will dig my nails in deep.

ideolo-juice

solar v lunar printing presses?

Swimming in ideolo-juice whilst in the city, I came across a newspaper, it’s cover presenting generalized data on the average person here, apparently. In colour printing there is a registration mark, and within these probability graphics/symbols used to present generalized data were the colour marks CMY representing adventure/discovery/social action. Statistics aside I found the general mathematical pattern jarring in its uniformity. Meditating on the registration process as a method of correlating overlapping colours into one single image -conjunction?- gestured towards a way out of antagonistic propaganda back and forth and a way into the technology, the machine.

This makes me recall my blind affinity with the works of Austin Osman Spare, but equally my dismissive dislike of Crowley's language. And i do put alot of seemingly irrational trust into that sort of personal intuition. But perhaps others distinctions between the two can elucidate, that is: "distinction to be made between Crowley and Spare. Spare was less interested in magical beliefs than in the nature of belief itself - he was interested in 'how' to believe, and not 'what' to believe."- Phil Baker

But dreamy speculations aside... Maybe to experience what is often called ideology in a more immanent sense? Less probability and more mess. Lofty aspirations aside I proceeded to deface the image with my face as, today, I am a vandalizing pirate.

and then... the smashed rabbit, found, two faces

Squaring the Circle

my initial attempts at exploring the squaring of the circle:
They were talking about brain matter and thoughts. And now brain matter speaks in chemicals. Still cannot fathom what she is saying.
To conjure her, to name her, he draws the brain symmetrically; dichotomous box box. On the floor, drawn in chalk.
And if he speaks to the reflective centre she responds in optogenetic beams of light. 
Now he is getting scared. He say’s stop planting thoughts in my mind. I like my mind like I like my women; (insert word here) box box. You made me do it! secret garden.
word word is seed seed in the aquatic garden. That is no secret.
So water is secret?
Protection is this: a square architect.
And that is how I became asphyxiated in a vase of freshly cut flowers. Do you believe me? It happened. In the aquarium.
I lacerate a napkin as I swim. Or I am just absent minded mind. I am not even here, apparently.
Mr’s Cognition wants world peace. But of current dolphins are caught in the fisherman’s net.
Therefore all I can do today is cry?  

specular plummet

plunging eye
into the kelp network

is Sirius see's?

anagrammatically splashed god

Woof

Tonight? I am a dog.

Femme-Incel

Anti-heroine

That weekend I was up for the taking, I could have been anyone. anything.

The weekend I saw butterfly man’s face, and wanted to kill him before he killed me, I entered his machine and became many things, and watched how I was circulated beyond my own will. How I had little left but the blind ability to create, even if that was just some throwaway doodles. And I did not know the context or who she was, but I think I recognized her, really.  

Update: successful integration of shadow self via second phonecall with butterfly pimp.

(no subject)

… If not yet explicit, I am against diagnosis as a coercive/gaslighting tool. Or you could receive this as: 'unfortunately, it seems my psychosis has subsumed the generous good sense of your pseudo-neutrality.' Or 'you cannot win em all'. Or 'what?'

A day in March

Sexually transmitted infections

Automatism meets automata

found image