SELF-MONUMENT

  – What now, K? What's going on in that crazy head of yours? – Sabrina asked, the Kindly Light of the morning waking up between shenanigans around town, buying and repurchasing those stocks on her cell phone. – Furniture for a country house, and going back to reading Gogol, remembering that he would never have written his books if old Mother Russia had been motorized in those horse-ridden days, which almost all of his troika pages spoke of. The room crammed with cardboard boxes sways under my voice, tossing, grasping the windows, in its panic of wind. She speaks through her teeth, with a grimace as if she wanted to laugh, her throat stiffening. Her words come out as noises, now higher pitched, an octave above the background female noise.

– Cosmic ingredients: teeth, hooves, marrow, kicks of courage, necessary for the use of literature in equinoctial processes, with ebb and flow, conjunctions of the sun, moon, and planets with all the delusions of madmen lost in the street or in the woods, due to the quality of the liquid in their bodies, and their psychiatric salts of evocation of the lost soul. The effect of this within the personality, already long ago in time, bubbling primitively and "prehistorically," without literary chemistry capable of helping me. No, I wasn't reliving the years of a sorcerer's apprentice.

The heart of the rich, the egg of Hell, according to Murilo Mendes, we don't quite know. How much catastrophe God sends into the hearts of the rich, with this superfluity they demand through the eye of the needle in exchange for the essential—essential is only that which guarantees them profit, the camel's back of their reading bards. Reading must read us, as much as be read, by the rich, and vice versa. We grow with propaganda, but Christ with distinction; above all, because in God there is no Time, and his answers do not coincide with the questions of men; doubts, focusing on the question of rhythm: of moralizing, of evading the "public," and of "war on war," which is still a bellicose, quite relative motto. Vague and disembodied Christianity NO LONGER EXISTS; the primitive, rupestrian Christian has also become consumer, without poetry or meditation, in the Absolute Disjunction of all the Churches collecting tithes and vows and their dying international chant in the visions of Vatican magazines. ‘’Then it will be over (says Artaud, in Rodez) But they will not understand that the Truth will never again be revealed to some who hide it from themselves, zealously and strictly. They will definitely stop wanting to direct things and desire punish those who attack you, YOU ARE NOT THE MASTER, YOU DON'T KNOW THE FUNDAMENTAL!'' Right, Monsieur Artaud, Caritas, Charity, by Christian definition, is also an element of anarchy within itself, which betrays political interests. Standardized, a tiny life replaced by newspapers and parasitic efforts in a body of eaten host, satisfied with a camera in hand and the routine in the head, where everything that seems normal is unusual (being sometimes yes and sometimes no American, it is above all the counterflow of attentive eyes. Of people? No: of scenes from film sequences). The legend continues: this written subnormality that a prostitute literature, activated in the Nothingness of its invisible colors, converts into action. Phrases, of course you would say that in another language, full of slang and incomprehensible neologisms, a dialect full of salivation. On the poetic plane, the spiritual is organic, Jivan and Mukta, man possesses entities that he himself ignores, he resonates them in his sound, in his voice, in his flesh, as well as through the prolongation of contacts and eruptions of worlds within himself, decisive emotional throws of the ego in an infinite list of troubles and pricesin free verse, the old upaya of Artaud, which etceterated against every FOREIGN INSTALLATION, to seek its own OUTSIDE. “I myself hardened myself without eating over the body of the maximum intellectuality with a skin of sex and a coal plant...’’ Artaud administered to reality a lethal discipline against contact, an anti-humanism full of detournements and translations theorized in the abduction of words that exhorted the twisted world to the OPEN sky. "What to do with what happens? We already know the model of the Appropriating Event (Sabrina says, practical-political) and the full body without organs, which has been perfectly described since Toltec shamanism, as EGG, SELF-MONUMENT, and in Deleuze is produced as ANTI-PRODUCTION: 'He who witnesses his own ANTI-PRODUCTION, his engendering from himself.' It is upon him, there where he is, that the NUMEN is distributed, and that disjunctions are established, independent of all projection. "I, Antonin Artaud, I am my son, my father, my mother, and I."