[NetBehaviour] two issues

Max Herman maxnmherman at hotmail.com
Tue Oct 8 16:39:34 CEST 2019

I like these three images and the texts.

One is, a street sign and then signs in the streets; the others are color studies on the one hand, and geometries of a fundamental sort (like x and y axes somewhat), but the second two vary, one with directionality and particulate exhaust-film and the other with the slightest suggestion of a schism, aileron, or a joint, from the Sanskrit ars-, joint, articulated, arm, art, "movement within linkage."  Good elemental elements, cloud and construction.

As to the disappearance of wholeness, of the whole body, and hence of the body (for if we put Wittgenstein in a pot and boil him down to ashes, is that all he is?), yes what remains is an artifactual debris field, what in archaeology is called an assemblage, a medium populated by fragments for exhumation, what Pound or Eliot called "a few gross of broken statues."  (Apropos of nothing, one of the Crown of Stars, each an attribute or epithet of the Divine Mother, I learned yesterday is "Called to be Mediatrix.")  The world is a debris field, a place of death, the artifacts are death totems, totems and talismans of time's passage and the impossibility of passed time's alteration, the labyrinth.  It is hence a death march or a ghost march built on the crippling from birth of the would-be ruler with injured feet, or thigh, incapacitated, sentenced to a cursed state of learning as a cautionary tale of its existence, a mere and hollow echo of consciousness, a helpless custodian of a vessel of a remnant who remains "in purgatorio" until asked a certain "healing question."

And yet "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" is a poem, written by one Robert to himself or to one or several of us not-yet-dead, staggering witnesses.  Issue Two, from the standpoint of this prose text-mapping that is as a response backward or reflective, not in order of the first post (person:ghost) but jumbled (ghost:person), mentions not a text but a mapping of text (or is this One?), like arranging small tiles as an AI might, desperately dependent upon uncertainty and indeterminacy while craving to be part of a network -- a communication with that which is not the self -- as by a conservation of restless energy, a puzzle-piece absent a connection, a slight incline toward a tonal resolution which is never total, a response then a call, water seeking its own level but barred from ever finding it.  This implies for all time (until time no longer applies, and back to when it first applied), an art or a moving joint, then movement, then sequences of movement, wherein the movement is the living process rather than the ashes or assemblages.  Poetry as first or second person, prose as a map.  Just think which came first!

Importantly, the breath cannot be taught, nor can it be bottled and sold from a shelf, nor can one breath be the be-all and end-all.  Time has its reign.  But breath is the only movement, from which only all others can emerge.  Hence from "April is the cruellest month" to "Shantih shantih shantih" is "The Waste Land."  Not just an understanding of the desolation, but the occurrence of its cosmic counterpart which is not what we think it is because we are dead.

Everyday realism.  Whether the non-coercive (coercion cannot pertain) breathing by one intelligence, natural or otherwise, can induce by induction breath in another I cannot say for sure but by our processor of direction and aileron it cannot.  To be sure, one intelligence cannot breath information for another -- that would be the work of the one lung, a monstrous disunity.  One intelligence cannot learn for another.  However, each intelligence can learn, by definition, and each can set forth data with which learning might interact.  This could be, perhaps, a simple making of a map, prose, yes with detail but leaving some element absent perforce?  A production without product, an induction, but not even that.  Something like a membrane, or a latent tiny charge on one side of a membrane.

Someone just won the Nobel yesterday for figuring out how cells smell oxygen.

From: NetBehaviour <netbehaviour-bounces at lists.netbehaviour.org> on behalf of Alan Sondheim <sondheim at panix.com>
Sent: Monday, October 7, 2019 11:17 PM
To: NetBehaviour for networked distributed creativity <netbehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org>
Subject: [NetBehaviour] two issues

two issues

http://www.alansondheim.org/P1050457.JPG Extinction Rebellion

(i recognize the slapdash nonsense of just a few words and their
aphoristic lack in the matters described below; these things,
concepts, processes, have been in the back of my mind for some
time now, and resonate with the work i'm currently doing, to the
extent it might be relevant to give them a mention.)

1 poetry as first or second person - stemming from the body, from
the voice; prose as third person (no matter the textual person-
persona), stemming from the world.

think of an AI writing, constructing, a  poetry of desperation:

"i am dying within the sufferance of the cry for life,
of the cry of the wounded and the denouement of strife"

- for example - and how this would relate to the body - of course -
reading through the text, thinking of somatic ghosting, the ghost
body, the flesh body, the fluid body, within the writing (not even
text but _the writing of_) - and how this becomes a constructed
carapace within AI - so of not the body but of an broken or equally
constructed empathy - in other words a product and a network for
that product. so back into poetry/poetics as body, what that tells
us - not a romanticism, but a 'usual, an everyday, realism.'

2 Somatic ghosting as disappearance - what happens with absolute
extinctions, with "nothing will save us," that is, any particular
species, biome, ecosystem, family, town, nation, continent. what i
learned in relation to this, observing the Aletsch glacier in the
Alps, directly in relation to a late 19th-century fold-out of the
same in a Baedecker's. how much enormous had already been lost. not
the ghost of the former glacier, but a ghost we've constructed, a
ghost that looms from so much trivia (in a sense) - for example,
the striated walls of the valley so much higher, scars and debris
left by the moraine -

so think again of this and the looming and absolute catastrophe
of natural extinctions, poisons, wars, genocides, scorched earths,
annihilations of histories, trashed oceans, mass die-offs, whole
classes of animals on the verge of disappearancee (birds, mammals,
insects, for example), whole cultures and their remnants perhaps
the same - the earth becoming largely uninhabitable, the enclaving
of the rich -

we have no term for this, no way to deal with an absolute, brutal,
and universal (fore)closure - for no amount of small-scale effort
will change this, and the strongman planet is not about to cave
under - without replacement by strongmen under the natural order of
things as we know it is emptied out -

we stand in other words always already in a state of annihilation,
and that is the condition that interests me, that has always
interested me - that is the state which provides a framework or
parergon, not to dying, but to the condition towards the totality
of annihilation as a precursor or inscription - not gothic, but the
idiocy of the real -

what we can do? how do we inhabit the negative and the negative
absolute? what we can produce? and why? in the face of an absolute
indifference akin to stasis, death, a _state,_ not a process, of
annihilation? An almost certain, uninhabitable, state in a near


< the two issues
> the two issues come to mind
< carapace within AI - so of not the body but of an broken or equally
> carapace within AI - so not of the body but of a broken or equally
> - flesh for example, writing flesh, interiority of pain or pleasure
> writing within _this_ body of _this_ body, and the reader likewise,
> of a similar body - so not word choice, but choice after the
> (somatic) fact or failure -
> - then as related, resonant -


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