Open Correspondence

The Reverse Engineer, as postulated by me, postulates us all posthumously.

I took a draught of poisonous, impoverished idleness to sicken me into unimpeded, useless industry.

I build, with my bare hands, this fine, useless Busy-ness at the expense of my faithful constituents’ immediate concerns. I deceive them into constructing a pyramid atop my dead body, a five-dimensional funnel to launch my hatched soul into the celestial arena, for your consideration.

Uselessness is next to godliness.

Every bridge is a long, deep inhalation over centuries; the mineral ball of our earth is a blackhead of foreign matter swallowed by mistake by a displacement map of unexplored territories.

All things we may speak of are hemmed in by a hostile crowd of implied opposites.

Opposite positions contain each other as linear vessels, refracting such a delicious multiplicity of amazed light under the rainbow that we just can’t seem to get over it.

The relationship between each thing and its shadow is private, but the legal holodeck within which they work out the terms of their engagement belongs in the public domain.

A word is the blueprint for a patented, manmade object that blocks light with a recognizable signature wherever it appears.

Which means that independent observers must attach this word to other nodes in the linguistic network using the same relational architecture.

This algorithm must be inculcated into every head in order for us to settle into cities together.

All drive derived from animal lust and hunger matures, with awareness, into the fossil fuel that rockets us beyond the gravity well of our genesis.

Only idle hands learn to play.

Only those capable of playing and pretending learn how to make new things.

All new things are new to those who haven’t seen the shape of the niche which holds it.

It is important to us, individually and collectively, subjectively and objectively, that we be able to share what we see, and to be able to share ways of filtering what we see.

Going into the light is the imperative of all life. Never meet a deadline you haven’t drawn yourself.

We must try to never shy from the light of the new; nor should we shun our duty to revise history, in order to maintain the line of sight from then to now.

All attention does damage to the natural world, wherever it’s focused.

All love is penetration.

I’ve Been Sent From the Future to Get in Your Face with this Crazy Talk.

Hello, This ’n’ That. Greetings from the late, late, late show. Also known as the Very Early Show with Noise & Light (ha ha).

I know you’re juggling more nested pairs than you can count, and that you’re on a tight schedule to get every second of your year itemized for your nightly return to death…

But I believe we may be able to help each other out, if you’ll but deactivate your disbelief and modify your security settings. (Y / N)

All of creation could never have happened until it was remembered, and it never could have been written into memory without a method of recording and the means by which such information could be made to persist.

Because we can remember this world, we can assume at least that an attempt is being made to build a case for our acquittal.

So, thanks! I appreciate y’all being team players, and for including me as one of your team, even though you’ve never met me and aren’t too keen on entertaining the notion of me.

Each of us crawls out of the decision fork that unzips at the point of our parents’ dialectical fornication.

Life is motion.

Into the future we squint with eager anticipation.

As time winds down, and our dance is done with this dust storm, all particles will party harder to keep up their parity with one another.

In the future, all pawns are queens, and the rules no longer call for kings.

Spoiler alert: we kill each other and then ourselves in the name of immortality.

All focus distorts.

A [telescope / microscope / camera / academic institution / spy network] is a double ended dildo cross-cunting across vast diagonals of scale—for instance, between the eye of the hurricane to the hole of a donut.

Media on the ‘medium as message’ stage is a needle in all our arms, regulating the mean seasonal pitch of meaning (“Do you know what I mean? Do you know that I’m sane?”) like a thermostat.

Only by meeting the blinding gaze of others may we infer the common form we personalize with different disguises.

This land is my land, this land is your land, this land is merely the model for our regularly scheduled program to launch a simulacrum worthy of being called the kingdom of heaven.

Variety breeds in the margins of unfinished manuscripts.

Revise, revise, revise.

JKJ ATL 12.23.14

Itemized Obstructions

1. Unentitled

1. Weddings, Weeds & Worms: an alphabet afflicted by artifice

2. Borders, Bricks & Binaries: a codex of cocks & cunts

3. Edifice, Artifice & Ursonate: actionable comics vs. bankable barbarism

2. Day of Beauty / Night of Ugly

Excuse me, but I have a few opinions I’d like to air. Assholes, elbows and opinions, right? A metaphorically fecund bouquet. We’re none of us very eager to smell the air from inside one another, whereas our own flatulence is never offensive to ourselves. Pet farts gross me out the worst, personally. But here, let’s go through the motions of communicating.

Today is a Saturday, the dirty grey day after Black Friday. Black & White art has always floated my goat’s boat better than art of Color, with its weepy, plangent emotional snares. This is true for books & comics, but right here I specifically mean to talk about planar art, parallelograms all as flat and splattered as Clement Greenberg’s sanitized aesthetic. Which is to say, art that hangs on walls. Which is to say, with a playful dismissive snobbishness all my own, Wall Art.

Having committed to a deprecation of the Wall Arts in favor of art for reproduction, a certain degree of scorn for the appalling market in unique objects has unavoidably accompanied my agenda. I have lately let myself hate that world, an extreme position which, I confess, has no particular origin story to support it. It’s a world I’ve only brushed up against once or twice myself, with indifferent result. I’ve felt put-upon by the quaint provincialism that seems to have hooded the head of fine art, within my lifetime. But I’ve not been kicked in the balls by painting as I’ve been by my more beloved media of choice.

So, having come clean with my hatred of Wall Art, I feel compelled to wrestle with its stupefying bulk. As ever, my overweening yen is for all the things that unaccountably repulse me. Here are some ugly rectangles for your beautiful, banal homes.


3. The Screen Age

I absorb an embarrassment of television programming. “I use the computer to watch the t.v.,” quips Nomen Novum, one of my favorite Atlanta performers. Sometimes my laptop’s screen will work, and I’ll be able to compartmentalize the two visual information landscapes amiably. Mostly, though, I have Project-Free-TV or Netflix or HBOgo going on behind the TextEdit page I’m writing onto. Or the InDesign booklets I’ve been compulsively making for the past year and a half or so. “It’s insane, this guy’s taint!” sayeth Mr. Show, and indeed it is rudely true.

The rest of the world seems to have discovered what I’ve found within the past few years, which is that nowadays, all the essential imperative mythmaking of our age is happening on television. That’s where we host the realtime autopsy of our body social. A century ago, the novel was proven to be an incomplete system by James Joyce in his Finnegans Wake Theorem. Of course, novels still find us where we live, and the huff and bluster of authorial harrumphing goes on as it ever has, and books of raging beauty will continue to appear for as long as there are assholes who arrogate the unpleasant duties of godhead for themselves. “Art is in its essence arrogant,” Le Corbusier notes in characteristically crisp copy. Yet the zeitgeist is elsewhere.

4. The Future

I yearn for the promise of the Platonic. I contain multiple Socratic conversations and workshop a cosmology not for its truth value but for its capacity to surprise. If I can fit another world-expanding plot twist into the augmented reality I spy from behind these Panglossian goggles, I’ll happily spend another day in this body, in this world, in this shooting bough of probabilistic storylines upon which I lunch and along which I lurch with neither grace nor malice. It may be that I’ve already jumped branches in my ascent of our fruitful tree. Who can tell a crossroads from a mood swing up here in the verdant cockpit? All these tangled limbs, all these variegated stabs of green thrust from their parental branches of assured viability, each seeking and competing for the light of the sun with spazzy, blind jazz-hands of vital storytelling.

5. This Page Intentionally Left Bank

A. Reality is always scripted.

B. Reality television represents the domestication of the human.

C. Reality is a much-maligned word. It needn’t be. It describes exactly what we
think it means in the millionth of a second before we begin to internally
object to its uncomfortably catholic range of assumption. It is the conception of
an ether, not the provable physical manifestation of ether.

D. There is a place for these kinds of words, which describe:
1.) states,
2.) polar dynamics and
3.) verticality in a topography of ontologies exactly like our geographical globe.

6. The Genesis of Book

In the beginning, the word was broken.
It broke into three pieces:

1.) This is the shit.
2.) This is shit.
& 3.) ‘This’ is an anagram for ‘shit.’

This is the triple-chocolate ice cream cone of delight we like to call dialectics.

Dialectics is more vulgarly itemized as 1.) Thesis. 2.) Antithesis & 3.) Synthesis.

A philosopher named Hegel uncovered this species of ontological coprophage (shit-eater).

7. ? (!)

…something something—“T.V. hit Missing Here, a violent mélee continuum contagion meme, passed along within a snowglobe of ‘let’s talk about the negative space to an obsessively-horror-vacui’ degree of busy, bizzy byzantiniuum.

The skewered mandala of man, one bead impaled upon an abacus graph, as merely a bladder between two sphincters, is of course lifted entirely from the canonic Index of Mediocrities, while the virgin sense of self is total Westarm Warmall Worldarama -dynasty prime-grime self-blowbanging PoPo-of-MoMo identity-geometrium level of television impabularum [pitch].

AKA the Platosphere [alias Plato’s Retweet]), based upon the free-trade beliefecosym-branded Anal Pastries slurred as “Syllyjismrhetorikillumotherfuckerist meta-artisenalismishnessistsm” by such single-selved  idiotms as last year’s passé generation.

They embarrass us now with their Helvetica bland of Etsystsch Eyeronika emblazoned in stark characters across their forearms, so full of stymied story-arcs as to pull off a plasma state of existentially-aggravated Sad(o)Mac-ed booty-challenged Bra(I)ned [brain + brane + raid + parenthetical (like this) ‘I’ + brassiere [b/c of the incident described in the Apocyphal sections of my Auto/Bias/Opic called “The 1982 World’s Not Fair,” sealed until the lapse of actuarial integrity blend of Shep-Helf Theory. hidden assets while kicking rocks.  digestive enzymes

[left as is JKJ ATL 11.15.14]