Friday, January 27, 2012

ALPHAGORIA (An Introduction to the PARADOXA)

“Her dress was made of very fine, imperishable thread, of delicate workmanship: she herself wove it, as I learned later, for she told me. Its form was shrouded by a kind of darkness of forgotten years, like a smoke-blackened family statue in the atrium. On its lower border was woven the Greek letter Pi, and on its upper Theta, and between the two letters steps were marked like a ladder, by which one might climb from the lower letter to the higher.”

--Boethius, The Consolations of Philosophy


Now is this winter? Alpha to Omega or Pi to Theta? Another sine qua non embryonic twinkle in some discontent father’s zoophagus eye. Favors production, this world of eternal return. Dark clouds glower at the crash and burn, at the Intel Inside artificial insemination of ages. In saeculum saecularum. This alphabet is a tripartite world war of words: ZANG TUMB TUUUM! Its bold retreats and advance alarums retrace a column of text under attack by drawn slashes of bomb. A gaff forgets, abjects, is sagacious in such evasions. This sum of York offers them often, offends, and is forgotten before the Theta can claim ascention.

But i… Da rules—dem ol’ dry bones, t’ain’t janglin no mo’. That threat was not made true. The raven always gets the last word, remember? Kinda takes you back: crumpling up inside of womb-like spaces, flesh and feasting, sin and symptom, sense and insensibility. Simply living and graphing pleasures as old as opinions ass-backwards gasp nimbly in a lady’s chamber. ‘tis thought, thought i, baggaged self-packing polystyrene in its own anxiety not to be lost, arranged in advance retreats through travel agents’ itineraria. Thought is not sought out to be paralyzed by thinking, to fall and gain through comings and goings, to say yes to all nay saying an’ that sagacious hayseed fool’s sense of what’s not worth gnawing.

The ruminator threatens to run through his theories too hastily to erase all the paper a priori tigers burning in the bright sublime of symmetrical fear.

The burden of thought bears what’s not worth saying down payments' maid against that certainty that went without. What aims outside of thinking is borne in suffering and suppositions akimbo. A crumpled body breeds crumpling and rears its symmetrical back, unfolding. All these baroque bric-a-brac's gestures lead disintegration to the trough and pour themselves inside out. So many ideals embody liquidation—a thirst for fornication—or merely work, opus reticularum, in unthought-of constructions—that’s just the way we undo things around here.

2/14/2002 & 2/1/2003