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Writing is Hallucination

NOTE: The following were written using the technicques of the humument, that is, picking individual words out of a page of writing and stringing them back to gether. The only rule: I kept the words in their original order. One of these comes from a story by an Australian woman writer (I think). Another is from an male American writer. But I can't remember which or who or what.

It was autumn. I entered your grave which said: she lived only for the moment because the man has certain unacceptable letters to explain her embarrassment.
     South Yarra felt older, almost predatory; before feminism; like a cat no-one came. I was afraid in the warm night when the man had left and understanding seemed to have meaning beyond these moments of abandon.
     The deep gardens raised in sobs and wails was a shock to me. They made me feel like fainting. My bones folded round great streams and vanished. Tears would turn women like us to ourselves.

                                                             * * *

The face of a woman, old and natural, as tender as new skin, chaste as the afternoon sun lifted a shadow, cleared and tranquil from my mind.
     The mise en scene vanished into a day much warmer than persimmons remembered in the autumn. She appeared gingerly loosening her movements in the breeze. Austere impressions, pale and implacable, stirred and would soon be gone. She was evening tension. My blood ticked and fell from the unmistakable white wall.

                                                             * * *

Adele came out and she wore a long white divorce. In a clear voice, somewhat oblivious, pinned, borrowed, admired, she was coming all tan, wet. She called eight exhausting years. She was learning his persona, especially around the eyes though perhaps not the man he had been. Phil had problems with love. A star was sleeping.
          Many states look into the human heart.

  1. We declare that we are against the fictions of fiction
  2. Fiction: every character must be believable, true-to-life, psychologically correct. Every character in a story must be real. Every character has the ability to hijack a writer’s narrative because they are real
  3. Fiction: fiction is just a story which is somehow different to your blog
  4. Fiction: you write differently if are composing a ficiton, as opposed to ‘non’-fiction
  5. Fiction: it is possible to write ‘fiction’
  6. We declare that the fictions of fiction are the cannibals of late capitalism engorged on the ever-growing bloated body of truth/belief, endlessly repeating as memoir, true life, stolen text and gossip; you consume all these with a knife and fork
  7. What we thought was a simulacrum is merely the exposed beating wiki of belief: fiction believes that you can distinguish truth from non-truth. Fiction believes itself
  8. Everything you read is a fiction
  9. Did this really happen?
  10. Baudelaire is now wrong. There are no more simulacra, only cynical belief because everything material, even ink, even film, must contain truth – because it IS - and therefore has truth value and therefore is true
  11. Everything you read in this world is true because someone wrote it and they believed it
  12. No one believes that everything that is written is fiction, but they all believe in fiction
  13. We make up a lie. We make a lie that seems real. We make up a heinous untruth. We whisper “she slept with her brother”. We write it down. Everyone knows. Let time pass and then observe the impulse to say “I wish I never said that”. Observe how you believe, now and forever, that there is a possibility that “she” (someone whose specificity, in the phrase of the lie, is so indeterminate that she could be any of the 3+ billion human females on this earth, as well as countless females of the species which propagate by sexual reproduction) is the truth of the lie. Observe how you believe the lie. Everyone will believe it. We will never be able to retract it
  14. Entropy. The second law of thermodynamics works here as elsewhere. We cannot reverse the breaking of the cup, we cannot restore its initial pristine order because we would need to reattach each molecule and particle in the same order as they attached in the first place, and to do that we would have to know where each particle was at each point in time, and to do that we would need to know the previous position of each particle, and to do that we would need to subvert the Uncertainty Principle in ways that are impossible
  15. The Uncertainty about our lie is ineradicable; the certainty of our truthfulness is the Buddha’s final illusion
  16.  And having believed it, observe how you believe it of the narrators of this manifesto
  17.  And having believed it of the narrators of this manifesto, observe how you believe it of the authors of this manifesto
  18.  And having believed it of the authors of this manifesto, observe how you believe this of the writers of these words
  19.  And having believed it of the writers of these words, observe how you believe it of yourselves
  20.  When we, the writers, authors, narrators of this manifesto write a page, a paragraph, a line, a sentence, a phrase, a word, a period, we find that we cannot write a word of truth
  21.  Observe how, nevertheless, you believe it
  22.  Even now, years away, kilometres away, parsecs away, as you float in front of the light-pad installed in your sleeping cubicles in one of the alternately revolving space stations where you work programming and reprogramming and monitoring Solar- and Dark-energy routings through the skin of the station, waiting for the first and slightest indications of malfunction
  23.  Observe how you believe all this
  24.  All fiction has been turned into belief by the opium manufacturers of the commodified world
  25.  And when human beings believe, they turn to murder.
  26.  We declare that we will erase the true-crime mundanity of the capitalist/cannibalist diet with the quantum truth of the Non-Human
  27.  We do not write in the language of the cat, because if she could talk you would not understand her, our word is simply Non-Human; it offers us chaos and in chaos is no truth
  28.  We will write in the language of the Non-Human door, the most human of human artifacts
  29.  We had a dream. We were walking down a corridor, a long, dark, hideous, indefinite corridor, looking for a particular door and every time we thought we had glimpsed it, the door we had glimpsed faded as we approached it and when we actually reached it, it had become merely an outline, a faint etching of rectangles in the dank stone wall. And this went on and on for innumerable eons, and always, the rising anxiety never rose or fell, but remained risen and rising in its constant state of anticipation of the unbearable
  30. We write in our sleep; when we dream, in that dream landscape we pick up a quill made of a hollow bird bone and write with the ink which we dream is pouring out of our veins through the slits drilled along our arteries by the teeth and claws and beaks of the Non-Human world
  31.  We write as though all the Non-Humans had fixed on us their beady, yellow, lidded, moist, darting gazes in very judgement of our lies, but we have no choice
  32.  We write when the cat is silent and the bird has flown to invisibility
  33.  Craft is a cat stalking the bird in the long grass and the bird held between the jaws and the bird escaping and the epiphany of the Sun
  34.  Writing heats the world and the world is invisible and the world arcs its energies between doors
  35.  We write as though we are approaching a door
  36.  We take a word and put it down on paper. Then we take another word. We attempt to restrain ourselves but find that it is a futile practice. And we accuse the cat and the bird of instinct!
  37.  The aim of all writing is to produce itself as entirely separate and unique in the universe, therefore we take down a volume of Borges, or Dickens, or Lawrence, or Eliot (T. S. or George), or anything else we fancy and open it at the middle and begin to write what we see word for word and then continue word for word writing what we see and we imagine the gulls over a strong sea and the crows weathering a cold season and the wattle-birds fluttering after large velvet moths and the magpies whitening across the seasons and the willy-wagtails surprising, and the raptors in the sky, and the startling eye and the blizzard of feathers at the end of the earth
  38.  We dream of the doorstep. We dream of the knob. We dream of the movement of doorstep, lintel and knob. We dream of all the movement. We dream of the rushing wind, we dream of all the interlocking parts moving. We dream of the moving. We dream of the doorway
  39.  We write with our eyes weeping, from tristesse, from disease, from injury, from degradation, from powerlessness, from our bent spine, from the endless horror of the endless movement of ein grosser Schmerz in our souls. Our Seelen
  40.  We will write as though a door had opened in the universe and we are too afraid to step through it
  41.  We pass by the still cat; we pass by the alien bird, we pass by the impassive door
  42.  We will separate the writing from the writer. You will no longer see the writer in the writing. There is no other way. There was never any other way. There never will be another way. The lie and the truth will become the word and then nothing is either true or false, and the writer will no longer be neither true nor false and no more cannibalism can take place
  43.  The creatures of night and day and twilight and dawn and sun and moon are behind the door. We will be devoured
  44. Therefore, open the door



angry monkey

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