Traversing a singular descent winding up compelled to Dis:pute - Dis:count - Dis:pel a new journey
the allure of a new cosmic text is irresistible.
The lines of which are daily but jagged, representing nothing other than the singular and collective lapses that we engage in seperately and together . . . here then is an honest coutenance retelling more than a splattered share of fickle tales left over from the refinements that our dreams had taken up in our abscence(s), weaving in pictures and colors far more enduring, resplendant and thriving, than the fair graphite sketches that we submit here, now . . . subject to all questions and scrutiny, and auto-pilot critic(al) combustions, savage eyes, intellects shears, defiant rows of type-face glaring forth at the waking wanderer . . . . . .
We are an apparatus that is comfortably dwelling in it's own illusions - however, who is to say that those of us who wake/dream around a dispute with parameters that this process shells out and withdraws from us incrementally day by night by day, who is to say that we walking perambul-sonambul-ISTs don't necessarily profit by our own feable meager expenditures in the department of comfort-hording steady, dependable fixtures that we have created, slouching in the furniture of our own daily-sought habits . . . . and so to posit the condition of dependability I ask how it is that this is the condition from which I perceive many revolutionary modes of thought to have been generated from - the Black Womb of Comfort, or is it the Black Wound of Absinthe?
A daily friendly habit of maintenance aside from its particular self-asserting moments of an independant snarl is sufficient to create a soft shrouded tomb of cottony womb cushioning - and here in a mere spur-of-a-moment I look aglance at those of us who fill in the attributes of a politically addressed personality: the depths of Narcissism - if their bowels reject us - usually place us, ultimately, admidst a dichotomy to the spiritual/puer archetype . . . .
IN Reference to this concept I place the gradual left-wing progression of the most intelligent artists who bridged the catyclsms that formed our free-market world . . . (ultimately), (yes you, I, will all become commodified, relegated to a NEW domain: what do we call this?: before, the culture that espoused it/themselves as derivatives of/from the Holocaust of pre/post WW2 - as an intelligent definition of global consciousness circa mid-20th century we were all figments of the Holocaust!. . .
but now we are shrink-wrapped into fucking minute little styrene lunch-boxes - and some-how I jolt awake and remember that as I was roused I was told that this is progress . . . . .(!)