'onsciousness'onsciousness

train/horn
buzzer first

index finger tenth
cushion

rub "that
criterion" alternative flash

yellow/red
(1066 against)

pulled keys keyboard
together

thumb meetings
scratching (right, above)

one
first nails

finger hand left

()

for horizon

it (sensible) rolled

over't
"clouds moving

away" ('n 'n)
emotional

discord 'usual
sensitive (un) association

Thoughts (spinning/linking)

The problem with consciousness is the consciousness of consciousness. What is this when you look at it? Time, of course, is dependent on consciousness, or to quote Lewis Lacook "artichoke techniques".

As I mentioned, in a manner of things, before, or what depends upon consciousness to seem that it was before, time seems to slow as we head towards greater conclusions with greater volition.

The greatest decision when writing these days is whether to employ the
somewhat Dadaist strategy of non sense, or whether to keep a sense of
communication within the text.

Inevitably, notions of Schizophrenia and other mental illnesses spring to mind. That is not to say that we are all schizophrenic, but, equally we are not all in a state of full mental health. And, ultimately, does it matter? One must look at consciouness/perception once again.

This leads to a rejection of medical models as significant indicators and treatments for severe mental illnesses.

This leads to the rejection of academic and (in particular) scientific
thought by many writers, artists, intellectuals, etc.

The problem with madness is the concept of madness. Mental illness is simply an illness, akin to, connected to and not unlike physical illness. It should not matter that one is ill, only that one is not discriminated against, because of this.

So how does all this tie up with consciousness? The fractals of consciousness!
The problem with computers is that, as with anything else, people begin to see them metaphorically, essentially as a metaphor for the mind. This is fine, human, harmless. The problem is that so many artists and writers who work on the Internet /computers are completely engrossed in these mental metaphors. This leads to an art/literature form that is unbearably introspective and excluding of the public.

Most non-artists would have very little patience for an art/text work
that conveys, in great complexity, what it is like to create art on
computers
that represent the mind to the artist. In a sense the
artist/writer is saying
that he has a way of making the mind apparent and
apprehendable to himself, and
isn't this fascinating! Add to this the mental
processes of creating within this
quasi-mental environment and you have an
art-form that cannot engage a
significant audience. Without an audience,
there is no art.

This is not what I set out to write tonight. As Damien Hurst throws paint upon a potter's wheel and watches it splay across a canvas, my thoughts fell from my mind onto an apparent paper page, or its representaton. One of the factors in this "omniscient" style is time, the lack of it! Societal preoccupations contemporaneous relevances, too numerous to touch upon in any detail, fall from one chain of thought to the next. If only now I had the time to think upon time and its irrational conception, its solipsistic (neologism?) perceptual existence, I may write in a manner that is closer to my intention and then times connection to consciousness. Then I could find an appropriate ending to my text, that would tie in with the beginning.

My conclusion would then be the start of something else, relevant yet quite distinct. Maybe I have acheived this, without even being aware of its manifestation!

from THE DAYLIGHT SECTIONS (32)

yellow and white
as if paint
all across
all things

as whispers
and as surfaces
that change
all things

very morning
very fresh
and seen
as if

the first time
present tense
as eternal
as it is

strangely [as an adjective] and without time to get out my camera [time = nothing/everything] i find myself blogging in the pursuit of words and their inflections. Words, momentarily, crack and fickle the mind, stirring out contours and avenues, hearsay and inventive heresy, which so many people are at these days. And as words turn to images before my eyes I/i can only reflect on experience rather than append image to sensation(!) Computers seem to becoming a joke; a battle between artistic and other intent and the happenstance of viral infections, crashing, slowing my system to the point of let's not bother....

Recently, I saw a rather fascinating dance work by Companhia de Danca Deborah Colker. Pivotal to the success of this work was its sense of humour combined with artistic voraciouness. Deborah Colker's dance company are from Brazil, and once again, I am intrigued and excited by this continents artistic output. If North America never really seemed to dissect "high art"and "popular art" then South America (or at least what I have experienced) doesn't seem to care less what constitutes "high" art or "low" art. This healthy attitude seems to blow Western conceptions of culture and cultural history apart.
The music and dance combined and flowed; a fluid and essential relationship. The dance was hauntingly deft, athletic, charming and physical. However, a nod to modern jazz and its tradition would have been a welcome addition to the contemporary embodiment of the work.

Back to time... People are saying the West is "money rich and time poor", I would question this up to a point, however, for those with an income (unemployment, its threat cuts through consciousness like a brazen voice) time and leisure seem fleeting. Interestingly, the more importance time accrues and the greater the importance of deadlines, time seems to slow, Einstein-like, to a point where conceptions of time become arbitrary and misplaced. Maybe our conception of time will alter, from greater accuracy, towards an intuitive sense of now and then, what constitutes history, direction, chance and the future?

from THE DAYLIGHT SECTIONS (31)

oh to be eighty-seven
(degrees) again when
loitering costs few
nothings already allocated
south and just the daisies
and our eyes to watch
are here it's time for
froth on latte on the cusp
of an already empty white
board halting overcast
(the fringe white sofa
holds apart our cherished
lines that volley back and
(offer) forth one fever
one sublime intention
no one but no one can cast
a moment's derivation
from the north when compass
lies full of direction
and the swatted flies are
here four ways to have been
danced like this my
Kathryn are you glistening
from the upper registers
the de rigeur integrity
and chanceful migratory
dream draw through the country
over highways and the perfect
geometric yards in your
sport car your utility your
devoted speech and eyes

was it a safe flight
a soft flight did you feel
goodbye as it was sung
by us for us within us
was that you with the infectious
voice the motion without
silence at all was the mere
feat of calligraphy your form
was justice this was your
still young face pure again
was everything as full as you
imagined were there stages
were there sets and was the chore
ography good as yours and in your eyes
was there a founded majesty
to fill you fit you free you
are you always there and still
here with us anyway

green'beam

death it
(looking at)
because if
"ankle shin
mouth felt
analogous" follow
back "but,
you" (9am
they) tips
pointed walk
above back
smile 'municate
aspect above
extracts "must"
painting door
peeled influence
example little
years four
negotiated scales
(reaction) signed
more "undo,
does cause"

we are we are we are the world i want the spaces between your hands breadth betwixt your feet in linear time your mortgage right get right get right draw a circle and stand in it music sont d'etre dek a line puzzle light

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after dinner out'side

from THE DAYLIGHT SECTIONS (30)

living exacts practice
here I am again
having dreamed voices
not in color
with morning screen
not veiling sound
from daylight's breath
grassblades
catch sprinkler's blessing
thin the insect wings

process leading out of

the problemo ne te necessite pas with writing poetry is that the words are exactitude instinctivo, unnecessarily blending the mind to a state of variable intuition, that calls a scribe a scribe vision is multitudinous; hitherto symbols are at best reflective effective (as unity((comprise)) motion) inflexion, reflexif (a la philosophia francais oui oui mais) not dogged down by the burden of knowing reasoning (as in imagining/thinking/etcetc).

Spain is an insect, or full of 'em, my travels there over recent weeks, pointing to the continuing crutch of the sun blathering wet eroticism of being, saviour of art and football, blowing tourismo porco senorita a cunt daliesque a mood

The problemo with letters nombre actuel is hat nay thais nose they are concepts, necessarily inflexible in meaning to enable clarity of communication. One wonders how far textual experimentation can go before text becums complete obscuration. I've always strayed away from animation in electronic text, instead training in dance to bring movement to symbolism/communication.

The art at lacapella (institute de cultura, Spain) a temporary exhibition called Berlin Tendenzen [poco habla, rien fait] who are a collective of multinational artists working in Berlin (I meandered there, stumbled, serendipi) blew away any recent British conceptual art that I've seen. They achieved this through painting and conceptual art that was largely user-intreractive, user-friendly, tactile, fun and merging with other media.

charg'd

whipped gust'nup "that
provision, that" new
job three weeks less
prophecy "and clouds go" grouped
(too great) appears
wave gravel/water (s)
"all these poems sounds like
pop song lyrics"
humidifying sounds
'norant reference
stump foot/feet that re-reference
(left fall for 'urgence
'uvering 'ale 'ulting
used hospital (tacit))

from THE DAYLIGHT SECTIONS (29)

she, under the miraculous fibrosis
of detained light strips enfolding and encoding
symmetry to come, prefers to hate someone
in common with an other
who can fortify inflexible dislike
for what might be her arbitrary target
dazed by artificial light of a pretend acceptance
only to fuel the link, live at the edge
of excommunication that would equal
freedom in one of many formulae
indigenous to flowering plants and fractions,
intonations of the good, the true, the bounty,
shaken from dependably productive trees.

Her tresses and her muscles fall, her happiness
is fleeting and depends upon maintaining mutual dislike
for enemies she makes and fastens on as if protecting
selves from something sacred,
that pretends substantive self,
an invented peerage that deserves
in her best thinking
to be shunned and kept material
within the minds of individuals who beg to premise
all that is not lyrical
on her divisive blinders to the good
and what might be a foster cure
for the indelible dominion of her cruelty.

tell the truth and shame the devil

eons
breathing emotion
occupied your space

predestined
at the
dawn of destruction

your
thoughts transformed
to the echo

bouncing
the screens
of other worlds

textantitext spuriousdada

working in shards we ashal ta tuh tuh specicies shat speak for themselff oblong tokk annabloomdotcom automatism wont cut the hay the prescience of a cut and paste means that i could give impressions of sonority not that i am indicating there is any point to poetry there is no point which is the point likewise you wouldn't call this poetry nor advertising garbled nonsense which may or not be indicitive of perception until you realise you are filming the sands of a desert inevitably words dont make pretty pictures cutting the avant garde [everyones a genius] so where to now which is my question with a relevence latin ain't gonna do if my neighbour speaks urdu animalism ain't gonna do it we need something so communicative so new that we can loose the tag after modernism

socont ra dic tiv e don't you know crescents art is y'no oh

yes but
coconut

probably the worst thing to
admit is we have not moved on since the dark ages

FELOOOOOOOOOOO

DANS EEEEEEEFR

looking like
history

PAIR CHO

HKS text u throw

OO

it's a fuckin mystery

END THE OOWI

she

breaks a sashay on

the dinosaurs were
wiped out by a meteor