Author Archives: exaybachay

Repost from AU : grim christmas-worthy madness

(im)potentiality by Adam Lovasz, author of Tracing the Inoperative.

Violence is a natural consequence of language in the Buddhist and deconstructionist viewpoint; Jacques Derrida and Nagarjuna both teach, in their own ways, that nonviolence and language are mutually exclusionary categories. Nonviolence begins where actants reject the coming-to-actuality of language. There is no more stringent ethical imperative than the injunction to abandon language and embrace the apotheosis of meaninglessness: silence. Silence is language that has been relegated to potentiality. Silence resists the urge to break forth to the surface and engage in activity. Every single actant is unified by the certainty of death. Acceptance, as outlined by Ludwig Wittgenstein, is the logical method of absolute negation:
The propositions of logic demonstrate the logical properties of propositions by combining them so as to form propositions that say nothing. This method could also be called a zero-method.”

..:I’m testing the waters of indie publishing with the paperback of TtI, a journal sometime in spring, and some poem tomes on a vanity label called Void Front. A website coming soon, accepting submissions? Anyone want to write a book?

Repost from randommyriad: Jim Jarmusch’s  movie Dead Man is a blending of surreal scenes, beautifully understated acting, and the haunting music of Neil Young’s solo guitar, and it tells the story of William Blake, an accountant from Ohio, who comes to the edge of the American wilderness and ends up moving through a world that is completely alien to […]


The most unpleasant, precarious and downright stupid immortality blueprint was drafted by the ancient Egyptians. First you had to get yourself mummified and that was very expensive, making immortality a monopoly of the truly rich, then your continued immortality in the Western lands is entirely dependant on the continual existence of your mummy, and that is why they had their mummies hid good.

Now here’s this plain G.I. Allie and he’s got enough boracca, enough energy to survive his first physical death, but he won’t get far. He’s got no mummy, he’s got no names, he’s got nothing! What happens to a bum like that? A nameless mummyless asshole? Why, demons will swarm all over him at the first checkpoint, he will be dismembered and thrown into a flaming pit where his soul will be utterly consumed and destroyed. While others with sound mummies, and the right names to drop in the right places, sail through to the Western lands. There are, of course some who just barely squeeze through, their mummies is not in good sound condition. These creeps can only live in the third rate transient hotels just beyond the last checkpoint where they can smell the charnel house disposal ovens from their skimpy balconies. “Might as well face facts, my mummy is going down hill. I don’t even feel like a human, cheap job to begin with. God, maggots is crawling all over, the way that demon guard looked at me this morning…” Transient hotels.Here you are in a luxury condo deep in the Western land, you got no security, some disgruntled former employee sneaks into your tomb, throws acid on your mummy. Slosh gasoline all over and burn the shit out of it. “oooh someone is fucking with my mummy!” Why, you are fucked! Lets face it – mummies are sitting ducks. No matter who you are what can happen to your mummy is a Pharaoh’s nightmare floods, volcanoes, earthquakes. Perhaps a mummy’s best friend is an Egyptologist. In museums they are safe from spiteful enemies, grave robbers and scavengers, and kept at a constant temperature, but – “air raid sirens, it’s the blitz… for Ra’s sake, get us into the vaults!” scream the mummies, without a throat, without a tongue. “By Allah I can’t decide, the deal stinks like a dead camel, long dead, anyone buy on to a deal like that should have his mummy examined! Don’t take us for dumber than we look, the Johnsons is taken over the Western lands! We bought it, we built it, we paid for it, it’s ours, and we’re going to take it!”

William S Burroughs, The Western Lands

I took a hiatus to “write” a “book”

now I’m back….

When writing mirror maze, I employed the use of this word librarynth that I’d ostensibly made up, or at least come to the portmanteau of my own creative accord…after using it, and marking myself particularly clever for its invention, I suddenly had an idea – google it, make sure I wasn’t ripping anyone off unwittingly…and found this wonderful node of artistiks that will surely find favour ’round these parts…

Librarynthine – Art and Text by Quinn Milton


What Happens When You Die is a poetry sequence about death — our beliefs, fears, myths, rites, and biological inevitability. The book takes a lyrical sweep of these concepts, not in order to answer the question, but to ask it in a new way. The poems explore life and death through the metaphor of a carousel ride. The typography runs a parallel story, so that the structure of the book is linked with the passage into death. 


Screen Shot 2015-11-19 at 7.05.46 PMAgain I find myself at the portal entrance of a mirror that knows that it is such a thing….

There is no way in which, after one watching, I could begin to elaborate on or dissect fully the Jarmusch film The Limits of Control. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I am doing here, dreaming of unraveling the motivation to continue this absurd journey by dreaming of patterns in art that can guide us in living and dying(?) perhaps…such, I suppose, is my post-nihilist-intent, anyway…but that is…neither here nor there. Here is where I find myself – enjoy my rambling slide into decoherence, replete with a lot of use of the word ‘literally’ – here: in this strange middle ground between a pinpoint pinprick assault on a stern stone (Cathedral?) edifice and a Zen’ing zoning (and zooming) out from Life to Art to Life that wraps and refracts until the dizzying realization that “the universe has no center and no edges” turns into a deja vu (repetition and différance?) marathon. Repetitive reminding that it is within the Hollywood-concrete hyperreality that we are capital-carrots, lashed to the slave-stick, tricked into the Matrix//cave – and Jarmusch, this monk of nothing and nobody, again and again inverts and reverses and mirror-images this virtual mirror of artifice. Contorting it, molding it, shattering it, gluing it back together: both incriminating and paying homage to the malleability of the medium (Jairus Grove’s recent (and excellent) paper somehow springs to mind when I type those words) in order, perhaps, to disguise the crack in the hyperreal it presents as Art. A negative-narrative, apophatic image of perspective and perception, the film seems to (much like Dead Man) link up well with my other thoughts re: combatting external control with internal, self-control but in a less ascetic and more literal sense. Active modulation of self, so to speak. Not a simple ascetic limitation, but a constructive self-authored process free from the control of the “images of the past” George Steiner claims rule us in place of the literal past – expressed in this place particularly as an active sabotage of Hollywood tropes in the form of a Hollywood-technicolor experience (a form explicitly drained of content and meaning while being simultaneously an implicit meaning made manifest…I feel Derrida would have several things to say).

That the inevitable end, the target of the Lone Man’s cryptic mission, seems to be itself a self-aware nod to the imagery of control lurking in hero-worship was tremendous: placing patron saint of Hollywood Bill Murray as the image of conservative, anti-“bohemian” Suit that doesn’t care about and can’t even understand what constitutes Art and authenticity. It feels like a spiralling-down through several gauzily reflective dream-layers toward the final conflict with a perfect mirror image, a mirror image on multiple axes: the enemy that looks like a you, a human – the enemy that disguises itself as another actor, levelling the field and subverting its own iconography to achieve further disguise. The enemy that merely wears human clothes – the Suit, the Capitalist, the Politician, The Man. This film is a meditation on how those images of the past – our masters – are being rapidly corroded and corrupted and replaced by images from pop-media in attempts (conscious or sub-) to forge false histories, destroy critical mythologies, and homogenize culture by influencing past art and present life – through endless stereotyping and manipulation of truths.

“No guns, no mobiles, no sex.” is the most obvious anti-capital/anti-control movement in the plot, the protagonist rejecting Paz de la Huerta’s ‘Nude’ even when she is literally naked and throwing herself at him, but the critique goes much deeper, literally counteractive to every stereotype that keeps a typical blockbuster saleable and becoming sort of an odyssey to free oneself from predictable ways of acting and thinking Art, to rid art of any capitalistic model based on consumerism and marketability. The Lone Man wanders these empty corridors on a mission to keep art untainted. His enemy seems to be an aggregate notion of “art industries” that tries to infiltrate his perception and impose its own dynamics in it. The Limits of Control is a clash of these two perceptions where the title of the film refers to the ability of one to “think the right thing”, free from TV-driven emotional response systems. During the final scene, upon being inquired, not so politely, how he got into the heavily guarded building, the Lone Man says “I used my imagination” as if the statement is the only answer to every question.

//”No control machine so far devised can operate without words,” writes Burroughs, “and any control machine which attempts to do so relying entirely on external force or entirely on physical control of the mind will soon encounter the limits of control.”

//”As I descended impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.” – Rimbaud

Further down, there is an absolute wash of encoded symbolism. Whether it be overt and plot-functional (several codes are presented then literally eaten) or encoded in the filmmaking itself (the dozens and dozens of arthouse/cult references), there is no question the film is intended to appear extraordinarily self-aware. Lines like “reality is arbitrary” and “life is worthless” are repeated literally a dozen times each, Tilda Swinton’s Blonde and John Hurt’s Guitar both autocommenting, speaking directly to-about-of-in-with-as the moment, always the moment in-before-after the Now, adjacent but somehow through the veil that we are still-always-already-mid-ripping/tearing and fully aware of it…Limits aggressively challenges the notion that there is a such thing as progress or superiority in art, that it is all one and everything is subjective – that the mere act of dreaming superiority somehow leads to problems with control: “he who thinks he is bigger than the rest must go to the cemetery.” If this is true, our allowing of others to dream superiority is tantamount to a concretization of their dreams – but if this is true, there is to be no disallowing of any dream. A Cretan Liar paradox, a Henkin sentence, a koan is buried at The Limits of Control.

///”The Sufis say each one of us is a planet spinning in ecstasy. But I say each one of us is a set of shifting molecules. Spinning in ecstasy. In the near future, worn out things will be made new again by reconfiguring their molecules. A pair of shoes. A tire. Molecular detection will also allow the determination of an object’s physical history. This match box for example. Its collection of molecules could indicate everywhere it’s ever been. They could do it with your clothes. Or even with your skin, for that matter. Wait three days until you see the bread. The guitar will find you. Among us, there are those who are not among us.”

Lone Man: I’m among no one.////