Travis Hedge Coke
There is Nothing Left to Say (On The Invisibles)
An Intermission Follows
by Travis Hedge Coke
8:59? AM. Breakhot. You sent Onorthocrasi Barbie. You sent, “the Earth circling the sun is casual, the sun describing arcs around the Earth is descriptive.” Anything is demonstrable. Nothing is suggested.
(Mighty fuck, it’s hot out. – ed.)
Fire is a hell of a session. A thirteen section cuckoo calendar. We put you through impregnation, a release from debt; admonished you with a decree of your degree as an ipsissimus. Without, it should be said, telling you what an ipsissimus is. Whew. Intensity in necessity; convexity for amenity. We don’t let you breathe. We don’t stop. We don’t stop.
Whew.
I beg of us queries. If Fire is the cleansing and the burning, the burning down and burning up, the fire of creation, the fire of engine, the fire of thought and soul and inspiring and perspiration, the fire which get sweat-born from which begat egg-born, the phoenix and the dragon and the bush and the binder of melting points, how to illustrate total clarity and honesty if not making it clear there are things I do not know?
Not only as coverage of a work I am calling Sentimental Nonsense, but a buddhist and non-buddhist tract, a gnostic and non-gnostic track, a poetic and etic tack: the value of without-debt.
“Meaningless,” is only a word. Evoke meaninglessness without canceling or removing its nature.
Closing 4.10, a chapter under the Queen of Wands, upright or reversed, an image of a woman become, or claiming, Onorthocrasi, and, “To be centered is not to be central. In societal scenario, ‘minority’ implies but does not mean a group which has a lower population than the ‘majority’ group.”
If Onorthocrasi, as Filoramo says, “Sits in the middle of them; she has no defined limits and is mingled with all of them,” if, “She is truly matter,” how can I not reconcile to a frame which can be upright or reversed, which can be front or back, centered in being de-centered?
Is this not the perfect chapter to reiterate a notion of demon or spirit or any being as person and any person or being as emblem or complex of ideas?
Does, as Filoramo says, this idea-complex Adam have a demon body or a demonized body and which is more realistic? Who the hell is Filoramo?
Who in Hell, am I?
Hello.
I love that in various Gnostic cosmogonies, there are Archons and there are Archons. Archons who are truly holy and above, and Archons who are beneath or without those Archons but position themselves above and wholly to us. Ant hives in ant hives.
If a system turns cherubim to Adam Qadmon or virgin to love, is the system in defiance of meaninglessness? Is nonsense undone by fallen angels of god, by poet? Does psychology tell us that the knowledge of death is will?
Why can a Gray Man or a Mayan Twin move between substrata worlds and how can we? Is this a fiction suit or is this skin we have on?
Adam, Eve, or Adam-Eve, Cain and Abel or Cain and Hevel, are able to be turned to nonbinary gendered beings the same way a beard can be on a gorgon or Venus, breasts of Zeus or Hera. There is no binary gender except in argument. Does that mean there is no male or female? Does that mean anything but rhetoric?
Every shadow play is real. A simulation of a shadow play is real. “Real,” is only a word. Evoke realness without canceling or removing its nature, right? If we spell Grey Man, Gray Man, does it change? Homonyms are not one.
Lakshimi Tatma is a conjoined twin whose life-saving surgery took twenty-seven hours. Four hours for suturing, included. The girl with eight limbs was revered in her hometown, and may be yet.
The most self is also neither self nor selves, selved nor.
All the etymologies of M?y? are supposed. M?y? is used and a person.
What is rhetoric? What really? Autonomic awareness may seem to be counterintuitive to awareness, but how much intuitiveness is concerned in the perception? Goal-oriented behavior may be in nature, while still being a manufactured or manufacturing thing. Tendency to reduce to things, to turn at angles which imply a thing to be used or a person.
If we accept a fiction as a fiction, how much can we invest in its reality? If we demand or find realness in a thing or a person, how can we reconcile or compile their fictionality? And, we all have.
The scroll of the Torah is like bones and the twin Torah are likened to a hologram, which is like a Holodeck, which is like This is Us. The staples of a comic are akin to vertebrae.
To say one thing is like a holier thing cannot devalorize holiness or auspice.
When Reynard, in The Invisibles, suggests a post-nowism, a post-irony, that might be ironic. And, might not be Reynard.
We live in the glow of the tv set, but do televisisuals even glow, anymore? What light, ether, poet, will, iron, sigil could survive post-irony? The post-ironist writers turned out to be some guys. The Holodeck is trademark Paramount, I assume, and This is Us is owned by NBC I say without checking.
I love you so much. Post-irony is a dogwhistle.
A five-form immobilis. Five times mistakes! Five minds to make one of ours! Five-fold fomented flaws! Five of mine to make one of theirs! Ignorance. Identity. Identifying. Ennui. Ennui.
Five-fold ennui. Melancholia. Gloom. Shuttered shuttering shitting shattered shut-up stop-up steps-up. The beats of the sun go un and pown. PWN and pawn and own and runs. Nous and ous loose in the juzgado housegaol.
Appreciate.
Transcendental Idealism is a map or a model a la mode. We are a trickster story if we are in one. That, too, ennui. That, too, nonsensical and a waste. That the dead know nothing refers to the living dead, and George Romero said those are us.
Phil Jimenez called The Invisibles an, “ambitious failure,” partly of, “mistimed stories.” How dare!
The more a Golliwog-supporter played face-heel about Grant Morrison, amidst talk of tights and “unearned teen rebel credentials,” the better Morrison shines.
How cruel!
Amida on the promises. Amida butsu.
And, that, too, illusion. All feuds are.
All things can be removed from context and are, as context, pawns and PWNed by the five-fold flaw flytrap.
Lorenz Oken’s Schelling and Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling. Urschleim and Isis and Aykroyd and Slimer. The guts of John Belushi gore firth. Inlets of meaning in a sous sea of meaninglessmess. And, puns.
The seek for meaning. Midsky twins and Mars Uranus. Graphologist and tarologist, Françoise Hardy, named her only son, Thomas. Rhythm and pattern are not synonymous.
“[It is] the showcase of language and images that I find exciting,” said Philip Bond, of part of The Invisibles. The true being is being every character at once and again at once again. Tread like stereo instructions.
The panic that when eloquent racists illustrate bones on the head or skulls in graves, as evidence of how we will end up, that when poet-warriors and colonist-quoters present us, “sweat-born,” as someone from whom every idea, every feel or notion whips off like wet sweat, and becomes a thing, and, “egg-born,” as someone who can take some ideas and shell them and care for them and warm them and cool into things, that jukes and jellies are presented as things, as true things, which affect the hanging out kids or the productive parents, until there are generations of criminal intent, human and humane, an inapproachable and inescapable sea of truths and beings, speculations and reclamations, like the Talmud is called or The Invisibles can be compared to or life is and life is not.
A Talmud made for study and browsing, for having any entry and any entry. What work is not? What art is not? What art is not work and why work and why art?
The further we ply, the more distress and disdain. The more rhyme and rhythm. In puns we escape, maybe. Sadly. In rhyme and game we live and die.
Those illusions.
Those glooms are us and that the flaw. Us is not a thing which has to be, but being, does it? We feel hopeless, gutted. Guttered. Pushed off page and off.
What if I told you it was all lies, all crap, all burnable, all turnable, all turntable and jockeying and lies and lies? Here, cremated or in the ground.
(It’s still fucking hot. Get ready for FIRE, coming approximately soonish. – ed.)
