the pain of knowing shrouds the phenomenal world into an eccentric invisibility—the pall of its recoil—within the vacuousness of which may emerge the icon.

the icon, in all its emptiness, is the volatile conjunction of myth and reality¹ within (i.e., encompassed by) the stark immediacy of the image—it electrifies the moment of logical perception with the poignancy of a purely emoted (i.e., "sensed" ) meaning; thus, the moment is deterritorialized, divested of its tautological symbolism: it remains, at this juncture, thoroughly "beyond good and evil" (cf. Nietzsche) with respect to truth value, hence, beyond "true" and "false," removed of its logical signifiers in the same manner that morality is "unqualified" (for man) in Nietzsche; and it is at this extremity that the moment may be taken up, once more, by the volatile immediacy of the image and becomes susceptible to reterritorialization by the icon's own insistence, by the driving force that is its exclusive, sentient meaning...

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note: such a thing arguably happens with respect to each and every one of us, on some level—a most arguable claim which allows for valid comparisons between Mr. Moore, Jeanne d'Arc, and even (however pejoratively) Slavoj Žižek with hardly the most complete and utter absurdity, if much at all. one must never the less be careful about this pervading phenomenon...

¹in no way here am I proposing or even suggesting the nonexistence of something known as "the myth of reality;" I am simply arguing in a more orthodox manner regarding the specific elements of dichotomy which do lie between the concepts of "myth" and "reality," however inevitable these elements and/or what they constitute may be.

"You snarling, infernal, chthonic naked mollusk, my nemesis and muse,"

"At the zoo the next week he was eager to speak
Of his woes and disclose agony:
'A wounded whale and a snarling snail
Made a horse's tail out of me.'"

_______________________________________

This dream started without me.

And ended in an unfamiliar room from my childhood:



My grandmother died, and a life begun.

A life of heirlooms and found texts of empty marketing.

Stuck in her heir.



I pinched and squeezed various plastic action figures that mimed my fears to me in happy-meal-toy life-likeness.

The room radiated with French pristinity.

Glass-grided curio cabinets, white walls of thick lead paint like an experimentalist novel.

It lived without my consciousness to keep it awake.

Much less my conscience, fate.



As a malebolge shrieked from a mummified blood-scrape-painted face in plain, fat, khaki trenchcoat waste.

I saw that fleshless, labelless corpse look me in the eye again: unnegotiable.

Ir(rit)ate.



I woke up craving her, the ripped Word fragments of Guideon's hotel Bible.

The most vivid, irony flesh: I could see again!

I could face that monster; kill it without [mal(e)]addiction!

I could erase it with conviction. . .with Redemption.

And I've fought to know this mortal vision,

Promising that you'd hear it: my infliction............And as you listen, please

Remember this: Death,

Or proposition. . .

goodbye deviantart, you served me well in my time.
I hold each of you in my heart
...as long as you've promised not to clog me arteries.
peace to all.

"What are our learned men save the descendants of witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs, interrogating shrew-mice and writing down the language of the stars?"

if you ever hope to know anything about a snail,
read "The Mark on the Wall" by Virginia Woolf, from which the above quote doth hail.