The post-traumatic stress of a surrealist sheep
to set the tone (and pace) of terror, a dream from
2015:
It’s a simultaneous triad. All at once. And you are in the middle of it. But you look so morose. around you an event is taking place. But you’ve lost heart. Irrespectively, it’s happening. It’s the underground railroad. One turning-translucent layer is -im in an office, trying to make photocopies from this book of conspiracies, full of the most generic imagery. The little mermaid in space, its quite silly. But I’m panic-serious. No time for laughing, its occulted order. I’m trying to photocopy the pages I need to endure this simultaneity, otherwise it will all fall apart, back to the flat of separate layers, silk. Maybe the anti-venom. Im using this photocopier to navigate the underground railroad. But three men in the room are doing everything to distract me, they are making two pigs have sex, a pink and black pig, and filming their genitals on close-up, pornographic sinister, or like the gang-rape of colonizing posturing. My attention is just a succession of close-ups and a losing concentration, electroconvulsive flashing, but I’m adamant. yes, like that film trainspotting, its so depressing. But i persist. one moment of the underground railroad is a forest opening, and a couple, an African American man, the woman, I don’t remember because I was her. We are having a lovely time and laughing, but he sees a group of men on horses in the background, coming towards us. Deadly fear, he is saying quick, get down from the trees, and the fear is not just my version of fear, in this manifest multiplicity I feel, completely, the mans particular type of fear, he is so afraid they are going to catch her. And so in the office im refusing intoxication. They are doing everything to make me forget. But ive got to get to that moment in the trees, and make her run, and its like mining. Moving through all this is like making holes in the head, tunnels. But it’s violent. this stuff is not easy. The conspiracy pages, I’m making her run faster.
It’s a simultaneous triad. All at once. And you are in the middle of it. But you look so morose. around you an event is taking place. But you’ve lost heart. Irrespectively, it’s happening. It’s the underground railroad. One turning-translucent layer is -im in an office, trying to make photocopies from this book of conspiracies, full of the most generic imagery. The little mermaid in space, its quite silly. But I’m panic-serious. No time for laughing, its occulted order. I’m trying to photocopy the pages I need to endure this simultaneity, otherwise it will all fall apart, back to the flat of separate layers, silk. Maybe the anti-venom. Im using this photocopier to navigate the underground railroad. But three men in the room are doing everything to distract me, they are making two pigs have sex, a pink and black pig, and filming their genitals on close-up, pornographic sinister, or like the gang-rape of colonizing posturing. My attention is just a succession of close-ups and a losing concentration, electroconvulsive flashing, but I’m adamant. yes, like that film trainspotting, its so depressing. But i persist. one moment of the underground railroad is a forest opening, and a couple, an African American man, the woman, I don’t remember because I was her. We are having a lovely time and laughing, but he sees a group of men on horses in the background, coming towards us. Deadly fear, he is saying quick, get down from the trees, and the fear is not just my version of fear, in this manifest multiplicity I feel, completely, the mans particular type of fear, he is so afraid they are going to catch her. And so in the office im refusing intoxication. They are doing everything to make me forget. But ive got to get to that moment in the trees, and make her run, and its like mining. Moving through all this is like making holes in the head, tunnels. But it’s violent. this stuff is not easy. The conspiracy pages, I’m making her run faster.
To
put my cards on the table is to put my
hands on the photocopier, to work into the conspiracy. My initial contributions
to this public machine are as follows:
Concerning the underground railroad:
The notion of the ‘underground’ does not exist for me as a materializing possibility. It is about as empty of a promise as god: nobody is on the outside. It is inverse-transcendental and the smirky promise of ‘what will be’ which long ago ceased to inspire me. I am only interested now in what is and how I so happen to find myself. The ironic smirks of ‘I just don’t know what you are talking about’ whilst giving a head nod, or illusions to secret circles, well…I will rest assured that great diabolic sabbaths are cumming on my behalf as I sit here and… photocopy my hands.
Concerning the underground railroad:
The notion of the ‘underground’ does not exist for me as a materializing possibility. It is about as empty of a promise as god: nobody is on the outside. It is inverse-transcendental and the smirky promise of ‘what will be’ which long ago ceased to inspire me. I am only interested now in what is and how I so happen to find myself. The ironic smirks of ‘I just don’t know what you are talking about’ whilst giving a head nod, or illusions to secret circles, well…I will rest assured that great diabolic sabbaths are cumming on my behalf as I sit here and… photocopy my hands.
Because of where i happen to find myself on the map, i do not have the luxury at this time to feel solidarity with particular groups over others, I can barely distinguish them from each other. The clusters i find myself in are presumably like others, a mix of persons. From what i have experienced i can confirm that y’all are just as annoying as any other gathering, with all that messy stuff, and i think that is a good thing and am of the feeling if this messiness is pursued and embraced over the ‘tidiness’ of old and worn intentions, well, we could have a lot of fun…Please, I insist, bite my wrists!
I am not sure why i came on the surrealist scene, alot of it non-chelantly and somewhat obliviously by way of my uncle. It’s a heritage of sorts and I am pathological enough to sustain blood. My patterning is a mottling and I like this species of feline. I certainly wanted to make friends and to ‘belong’. If this need is a conformism then that is perfectly fine as it will be a quite spectacular conformity, a one which admits its absolute desperation, despite all terrors, to connect and the horror of an inability to do so. So now I am a sheep, a surrealist sheep. And it so turns out I did not escape the Hive, I am a zombie!
My manifesto aspirations go something like…I don’t want people to feel how i have felt. And i don’t want to continue feeling this way either, that is, alienated and alone; honeycombed. I have been fighting and fleeing for quite some time now via this locomotive of terror. It is here i stop. I have belted on strangers doors begging to be let in but like a vampire they cannot come in unless they are invited. People around me are dying and i conclude in non-conclusion i can do nothing but stop and fully disclose the point at which i am at and which i am. There is nothing up my sleeve and never was, my wrists are naked. I have been many things, susceptible as I am to the tides. I just so happen to find myself…here. I have hated intensely. It strikes me that I am not alone in receiving ‘revolution’ as a militarizing recruitment. And a man recently rolled his eyes and announced “everybody knew that already”. To this I respond, no, everybody did not and does not know. We thought we were alone and we were really scared.
That place still very much exists on the map, an area 51. I think we (that is just me) should use this shitty photocopier to storm it.
I have landed on the territory of the area 51 of surrealism, and i plan on colonizing it with my hands:
birth rights return to the witches hands.
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