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A
Nino
mot
à mot
J'entre pour porter ces considérations sur la complémentarité
- dont on ne cesse de s'éblouir, étouffante, - entre l'esprit
de l'avant-garde et les tourbillons du kitsch. Les deux couvrent, pour partager,
tout un monde où il n'y a plus de place pour quelque chose d'autre, même
pour une utopie ou pour ce tardif mot. Mais l'atlantiquité essaye de
s'évader de l'encerclement des syphilistins qui l'ont fait possible.
LE
SYPHILISTIN (sometimes called the kitsch-man),
EST
LE [P]
ORNOGRAPH
On reconnaît aisément le syphilistin:
il porte la photo de sa croix.
Pas de MauxRalistes! No Rottenstants: keep
them at bay for a while - they decaffeinate us they, decoffin our wept-over
bodies they - to spit once more on their arrested multiplicities.
((p)ornographers laughing at those dried-up
summoners. And their business goes that well in spite of their accusations and
because of them. all this tied up with modern dialectics' chains. we see it,
sense it, say it: chained, we await our eagle to show up, ruthnolessly, Swiss
watch-like, and to eat up our liver and to write the gospel of the future whirlwind
of fire which will unleash and carry us up to sky no. 8)
Le moraliste en ennemi paisible, composé dans l'éternel passé,
apporte (toujours en offrande) sa contribution à la vie: une boule de
neige qui rate les dames du temps jadis. Le moraliste (ou)est dans l'ombre de
l'avant-garde et du kitsch où il n'y a pas d'"ici" qui lui
soit réservé.
Mon frère ennemi - le syphilistin qui, par tous les moyens, apporte les
fins du monde dans la ville et dans ta ruelle et dans notre lit.
Le Dasein du syphilistin (that trinket there) est le trou par lequel le vent
du néant sabbath.
A coeur d'éon
princeps final de tout parler messianique, imitant les vagues, un écho
du revenant. L'harmonie pythagoricienne de l'univers on la perçoit dans
la dédésirée connaissance post-coïtale. Quand tous
les animaux sont tristes, l'esprit maîtrise ses coups de dés. L'acordéon
- la Seine sans vagues respire par ses poumons - se met à chanter:
nostalgie
noli me tangeri
nostalgia
noli me tangera
C'est vers le principe, dans le coeur de l'éon, que cette musique nous
pousse. La con-naissance post-coïtale, calme défi à celle biblique,
nous projette au-delà du commencement du temps, et l'illud tempus déménage
pour peupler l'avenir.
Coito, ergo sum (Luca Pitu disait-il, quoi ?) Mais ça c'est du Descartes
accompli dans sa coupure. La vraie vie est absente, écrivait Rimbaud sans
trahir la große trahidition allemande. Les surréalistes vivent cette
distinction entre "vivre et cesser de vivre comme solutions imaginaires"
et la vraie vie dont l'absence est froidement (re)constituée sous un microscope,
mais présente uniquement dans la connaissance d'au delà de l'amour
qu'un orgasmoscope ne saurait mesurer.
Gott ist tot -
what's to be done?
(1) bring nostalgia
in, heal his absence, fold your tears under the skirts of the golden urge over
which the ol' good one was no less than reigning.
(2) go before (that) time when god's possibility was nihilincarnate.
The land before god chests the avantgarde's spear
the
name of the land is
Atlantiquity;
its
discovery -
+heretical than America's
Avantgarde makes history impossible; it makes unhappenings out of stories. You
can't tell what's going on in Magritte's paintings, can't make stories out of
them. The only way to narrativize them is to tell the story of your own interpretation
of Magritte's paintings. All these are stories about how we can't make stories.
Time is devoid of events, a pure time, at the antipodes of Kant's a priori -
insofar as it is obtained by incontrolable syntheses: of blindness and prophane,
of sacred and insight.
Les atlantes, revenant des cauchemars bénignes de Platon, encrassent
dans la région déserte de nos abîmes, leur bleues profondeurs.
Ecrivant Ulysses, Joyce songeait aux tous les sens que le nom de Molly
Bloom pouvait réveiller. (te rappelles-tu, Nino, moly était le
nom de la plante que Hermès donna à Odyssée pour contre-carrer
la Circé). Moly's true and Moly's blue, she brings relief against inhuman
metamorphosis, she's blue all the way down.
But easy going Moly does not pay rent in
Atlantiquity (this hints to what you know about Atlantiquity, to which I can't
attend verbally); she's before that, between you and that remote improbability
which is the land of the avantgarde: "... and then I asked him with my
eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain
flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he
could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes
I said yes I will Yes" (and so Ulysses turns its returns into an
ending). Blue Moly in improbable fields.
Attends, t'entends: les syphilistins s'approchent.
Chaque matin, les enfants partent dans l'inquiètude. (Il faut bien reconnaître,
avec A. B., que la plus grande liberté d'esprit nous est laissèe).
Then let's push hardships
we
grow old, our ships slowly babblingly
sink
To keep up with the spirit of the avantgarde is as unbearable as to live with
history. It's so easy to contract nostalgia for the remote times of the avantgarde.
Unless you hide - under the crimson moving wounds or under the clean sheet of
freckled skin - the scars with which history has marked you, you'll be in the
arrieregarde of the avantgarde. They're all mad in their crave for purity; on
top of, avantgarde is crazy.
Voler, imaginer, rêver, les verbes ailés du royaume de l'instantané
qu'est l'avant-garde.
Des
anges avant la lettre de l'apôtre.
Gloire calculable aux trente-six chandelles des jambes mortuaires de mme
] Husserl [
qui
chante
salva
veritate et mori.
Atlantiquité bleue, Atlantiquité sauvage, monde ouvert par une
seule limite.
Fearful angels, sweetened by syphilistines: de-demonizing angels bring kitsch
out.
before
a trinket
vertigo
sum
Trinkets, alien (to) subjects, aggressive ontities that perform upon me the
ritual surgery of the void. Their phenomenology builds a secure bracketing out
of my own taste - not the taste-already-in-statement, the judgement - but the
felt taste, the substantial basis of the statement that falsifies its ground.
Taste as a faculty - like imagination or memory - is that which lacks in the
process of cutting phenomenological ways through kitsch.
Be happy. Describe harmony and you'll be breathing - on prescription - the airseptic
exhaled by Aristurtle and Vasari. Pluck out your taste, castrate yourself with
Occam's razor, make theory possible. But don't make it desirable, for it's already
possible - make a gewgaw out of yourself.
The kitsch object devours the surroundings: environment unfriendly, it makes
space and time shrink, it infantilizes our experience, but it closes the way
of innocence. It buries experience in velvet coffins not to be open - no one
should open that canned void. Kitsch, technè of happy funerals. From
the outside, taste tastes its own burial.
Nature knows better than kitsch (and what she does not know better, she forgets);
it simply lacks this possibility - no color combination, no shapes in nature
are kitsch. It is taste that which bring naturaleness in the higher states of
contemplation and the subject to the understanding of its nature. There is no
way back from kitsch. It is naked force tamed by numbers.
Kitsch is the heroin and heroism of the masses.
Not gusto (that yucky hellitistism), but kitsch is the beauty-end dans les par/ages
des reproductions: mécanique, électronique, gênétique.
Let's
do nothing
and
we'll all be Americans:
we'll
sambalabada, we'll tangotohell
we'll
well and we'll fast forget taste and smell
Obscure, as a matter of pedigree, we'll shine back and forth, over the oceans
dried up by our boys gone to war; we've never been aristocrats and never needed
taste as a thin life jacket; bad taste has no aftertaste for us. Nous sommes
les résonneneurs de la Realpolitik. We're bullies of bliss, we don't
murmur, we state.
The
institute of inequality
-
the unbecoming State -
genetically
lacks a knack for beauty
then kitsch will take care of its business, kitsch will be the cradle of state/ments.
And aura-beauty-pure? Who's there to weep it? Whoever it is, is on the losing
side, crammed in the little enigmatic black hole that's squishy-squished, more&more,
by kitsch and politics. Il nous faut deux guerres, et, puis, un Daguerre, pour
nous en sortir.
L'avantgarde
de l'entre
(les
jambes jalouses de la) guerre
Deux guerres, et Dieu change d'intention, devient pessimiste, bénit n'importe
quoi (tes sourcils, une autoroute, le Wall Street, la famille). Et maintenant
il bénit le kitsch, la voie démocratique que retourne les troupeaux
vers son royaume. Idyllique dieu, ce theos-telos de la technique.
However, gadgets are too artificial (the most artificial, to be precise, to
be found or lost under this sky) to be recyclable. Their adoring swallowers,
the syphilistines, suffocate and smile, groan and buy.
Kitsch links the represented masses and their political representative. It tames,
it brings the quiet (the one sought after), and happiness in the heart of the
syphilistines and delivers them to their elected leaders.
- What
do you want to do to me?
- I
want to elect you
So, so... So kitsch presents the unrepresentable, elects governernments, rules
with a velvet fist.
This wind sweeps concentration way: the kitsch man (like Spiderman, Superman,
Batman) does not focus on the kitsch object. The latter is peripheral to the
former. It can be perceived in a corner or on a shelf, conveniently far away.
You live a kind of quiet knowing that it is there, whatever may happen to this
exhausting, cruel, and cold world. Kitsch engineers the distance it has to be
perceived from, together with the continuous attraction it exerts, that gently
undermines that distance. For the syphilistine, the kitsch object is an angelic
sign which protects him from himself, a symbol of gentle possession.
Bibélothéque,
musée des muses du kitsch.
As a matter of taste, the global's split between the hyperreal Atlantiquity
and the syphilistine infrareal. Complementarity. Taste hyperhates the many.
Syphilistines just infracare.
Comment doit-on être pour être (dégoûté par
le kitsch)? Il paraît qu'on le saura un jour, un jour plus vieux que le
plus jeune jour, le jour du jugement négatif. Mais pour percevoir l'avant-garde
à la savourette, il faut s'avant-de-tout-garder d'être déplacé.
Cette querelle des goûts warns us: kitsch presents as life that which,
for us, is fully meaningless and meaningfully void. Ontologically, kitsch is
blindness to death, the shift away from shit - l'idylle qui remplace l'idée.
Through
each kitsch
the
abyss looks into you
and
tells you not to worry.
Indeed,
why would you?
Your
transparent your self
Narcisse,
m'a(b)ime
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