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Another Night and Day Alliance 041
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A A N N A A D D A A
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A "Collective Karma: Response to aNAda #41 A
A Uberfizzgig aNAda #39: A
A Vincent Van Gogh: The Suicide of Society" 04/16/00 A
A by AIDS A
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My mother always told me... Well, my mother said a lot of things, but
she said, "son, a man can defile himself so bad in this world that not even
his own mother and father will acknowledge him." Right about now I feel
like the Dali Lama's mother and father; those who would accept the Dali Lama
as a fair representative of the Tibetan people are whores and thieves. those
who would accept the idea of a common or collective karma being responsible
for any event of /significance/ are fools.
an example is given; the example is that of Moses.
likiki tikitiki
litiki dataka
datki litakika
tomba diataklia
diatom baklika
The artists all dead so early; a short list: edgar allen poe.
vincent van gogh. antonin artaud. isadore ducasse. gerard de nerval.
apollinaire. baudelaire. rimbaud.
In his excellent work "Vincent Van Gogh: la suicide de la societie",
Artaud addresses the problems of the collective karma; the common karma; the
people together.
A scene: Detroit Institute of Arts. March 25th, 2000. Special
exhibit: Vincent Van Gogh. portraits thereof. And then I am exposed to the
bitter women with their pinched faces, geriatric sluts who have come in lieu
of anything else to do; scent of social securities spend on culture is
thick. Others too; those who describe Diego Rivera to me; classes examining
Graeco-Roman antiquity, magnificence of sculpture. It's an open banquet
here, everyone's feasting.
Counter-point: self-portrait of Van Gogh. Light brush strokes for
the man. No visible globs of paint. Pointillist. the strokes, light
dashes of color, circling around one single point of focus: the left eye of
Van Gogh. It brings me in. It's sucking. Calling in. Hither. Thither.
I let it, but I don't enter. I am incapable of entering, but I hear the
call.
The others go about. Oil paintings of filthy french families; ink
sketches thrown off into the water are resurrected and posted on walls; they
are read like church bulletins. Believer and heathen alike. 130 deaths in
Whitechapel this week, 128 of the plague. 130 deaths in Whitechapel this
week, 128 of plague. Fund raiser next sunday for new organ. New priest
coming next month.
An eye: watching. The orange of the beard; the color of the
crusades. Begging for mercy. The Knights Templar founded in 1180, put down
in 1320. I'm brought into the Saturnalia. December 25th is long gone, and
I am here in the musuem with the same girl who kept my bed that night.
Outside the sex is as thick as tapestries.
dididi dodilaka
latika fiki
totum tata
fita tumta
dodila lafita
at night, the genius sleeps. visitations. all the horrid faces. a
slow conspiracy of the overclass; of all those whose daily life is food.
Those men and women who Trotsky and Rivera would paint murals of; those who
would ask you to set up printservers; people who look and sound just like
you. and just like me.
They, too, sleep. merging back into that great unity from whence they
came. Together now; they look up and down through the dreamworld; they seek
the ones who are not part of their pattern. And then it's black magic time;
the spells are cast.
Visited. Night visitations by the horror the tattering horror which
takes the soul and reduces it to threadbare carpets use to hide stained
floors. What was is unmade. Purity of vision is deluged by cars and
analysis and metal and wire and choking whores putrid rancid with syphilis
patients babies screaming web designers calling down the pain mother's worry
over her missing baby cash money tomorrow today yesterday last tuesday
splattered all over their impending what was isn't can't be and never was
Well, we ain't got it on him, but we sure got it on his helper. Everyone
you know and everyone you don't know comes to the banquet; what's the main
course? souls. soul of van gogh. folk singers come and look at the
paintings, go perform on stage for those little girls existing outside of
perspective, and then both peformance and audience go home and dream black
magic spells. well, uh, what's the point if no one can enjoy it? It's all
about having a good time. Hear that? That's a death rattle. Let's
celebrate. salivate.
tiki laka
lumata biyata
liki tikati
limata biyatiki
aliboom biyai
the enemy wasn't the pharoah. it was the hebrews and it was the
egyptians. Sleeping at night dreaming of desert oasis and the yearly flood
they send their black magic spells down upon Moses. Dead before the end of
the Pentateuch. Moses at night is visited by the god Anubis, but Anubis is
not weighing, Anubis destroys. He is Kali. Moses fears but goes on. The
dreams of the egyptians are of little meaning. What harm can they do? He
is young. He's a white magi, student directly from the Trismegistus. The
attempts of a society not his own will never pull down his statues.
Bring him out into the desert with his own people and the dreams
change.
A man can defile himself so much in this world that not even his own
mother or father will acknowledge him. My mother told me that. But there
was a lot she didn't. She never said anything about getting eaten alive and
having a false history attached to your name, and then, perhaps worst of
all, being given the byline.
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{ (c)2000 aNAda e'zine * * aNAda041 * by AIDS }
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