“Hello I’m Anthony, I’m an artist” something broke behind his eyes and several invisible walls swung themselves up between him and everything.
Exhilirating sterility. He stared at her five whole minutes without looking at her chest. At the end of their conversation they both looked at each other in mutual tacit acknowledgment of the fact then in acknowledgment of the acknowledgment broke away. He felt so strong. He considered all the viruses he had and felt they’d raised him more than the TV. His gut was filled with fire and he went to the bathroom and hit himself in the face bleeding and staring numbly at a half angle in the edge of the cubicle considering how his vision hit it so it intersected at 3 angles, really felt all 3 dimensions operating. Numbly he probed at his teeth with a tongue and considered his haircut – it worried him. Sideburns weren’t fleshed out enough – he’d always had weak facial hair, but he wasn’t willing to just shave them off. He kicked at the side of the toilet which caved in and water spilled over his shoes, then he climbed out the window and left. It was 3 AM then and the air was abuzz with primordial loneliness like you might feel outside an industrial freezer or inside the bowels of an airliner: Somewhere manmade where man no longer was meant to be & which as a result became rarefied space, something like a temple – consecrated to what? If Anthony were capable of having God, that would be it: The God of Modernity, God of the object-besotted white man – man overwhelmed by his making which worked itself through him to crushing excess and which process itself was the worship and products the God. Work is worship. A thing became as much a part of you by your making it as vice-versa. Anthony felt looking was a making but he didn’t know where he begun or ended but despite this he felt alone, not lonely, and complete in himself which was several things. He felt an invisible planet or void around which these things orbit and which in turn orbited round each other and from which orbits things left and into which things entered, and the planet-void he only knew was moving by its deformation, by the changing of the orbits, the sensation of a deformation apart from any reference frame. Could not tell whether it caused or was caused by the orbits. Although it was the centre, and these things were not contradictory. Anthony thought dimension only made sense in terms of relation like how could you tell where a thing was except with reference to some other thing and probably that space existed so that things could find ways to relate to each other anew and he split himself into a million pieces so they all could have 999,999 friends.
Man was never meant to be alone. He drank in the energy of the night and became inhuman, indulged in thoughts which he couldn’t have otherwise. He veered into uncertainty and visionary states, became an interstitial moment of himself; a crisis point at which all limits were suspended. He felt he was receiving visions of the future now and this was odd because he knew he wasn’t seeing things. He saw a pink stretch hummer huge in malevolent sovereignty lit by the street lights which seemed to him then truest expressions of the God Itself; of Its light, the essential element of which Its cosmos was composed and by which influx was sustained and it seemed to him then as if light was emerging from nowhere and he forgot wires or did not forget but they seemed to him perfunctory or provisional. He glimpsed at shadowed bobbing forms inside the car which seemed as its plotting or gut flora or complex unfolding of transcendental forms in a process approximating thought. And streetlights stretch to the horizon and he hears a distant chainsaw coming down on him almost directionless angels were arguing he thought and saw things and visions of:
Metallic hypersolid leavening its way across the air as if by process of a fermentation interaction with the space it intersected with it spread complex technologies at him and thoughts which he could not parse in his own brain but which could be had in inorganic media and fuck I want to break my face and grind my face into cement and feel my atoms mingling with it and separating myself not into the distance which occured between the ground and me but as the point of intersection where I couldn’t tell the difference of my face and nerves and grinding and the surface they were grinding into felt a piece at last and just fucking pour myself into a thing and forget myself and have these thoughts which occurred as the shifting of tectonic plates and titration of chemicals tachyon tachyon deformation of the light passing through atmosphere window eye as a single object – we can draw lines around anything and constitute it as an object whether visually contiguous or no and I could feel myself as limbs and panick ecstasy con-vulsing/-volving/-torting and comporting into forms I couldn’t know I did which spoke themselves to me through rapid breaking of the body; same as empty hands hold the universe you could evert yourself to a surface composed maximally of nervous tissue projected out into the world and arranged as to maximise surface exposure which subtle field less than atom thick at any given point insinuated itself through reality gradually probing and pricking strip-mining potential sensation producible by any given arrangement of matter at any time so in continual overenwhelm-ment is what it spoke to me in complex technology forms approximating speech.
SECOND a maxsolid timecrystal synecdochic-holographic of universe which universe was itself a map of the crystal’s unfolding which appeared as a peak of intensity blinding at its centre for which and from which the rest of the crystal grew and which existed to scaffold it cause became consequence then they became indistinguishable as time folded from __ then to V then to | spirals looking as hourglass converging on/radiating from bright kernel being the thing whose facets were in fact cause and consequence.
There is no point, there is an endless amount of processes occurring for themselves in a void, ad(v)ancing through a void, dissipating into a void. Thought feels like a series of biological runoffs which thought is itself a runoff and this he dismissed as a False End and temptation and howling he pounded his fist on the pavement again and again and was struck with a radiant shadow which poured itself over him a complete absence of knowing and being He Didn’t Know and couldn’t know and didn’t know if he couldn’t know and all at once the problem was resolved as best it could be for the timebeing he supposed.
So much of the world around him could only be entertained when it was filled up with people. They were not its spiritual lifeblood – it had its own life force – they were masks for it, masks for its true nature. It mimed what was human to hide its own machinations, its processes apart from man; its consciousness, its dynamics. The machine works for itself. It exists for itself. Forces exerted themselves through man – forces which preexisted man and which manifested through him in new ways. Man would once again have an awareness of his place in the universe, medium through which processes which exceeded him worked. An empty materialism would pass and be substituted with a one full of spirits. He saw a pink stretch hummer. They told you it wasn’t alive, that it needed them to exist for it when it existed for itself. Man was never supposed to have been alone. What was man? This fell apart for him.
spigot is an astrologer and writer who prefers to remain pseudonymous. This piece is an excerpt from a novel which has remained dormant for some years. He can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org, and welcomes letters.